Getting By
by el spirito
Summary: Dean is trying to take care of Sammy, but Dad is overdue and the food is running low and the Winchester luck is about to make an appearance...Hurt!Dean and lots of angst
1. Chapter 1

"Here you go, Sammy," Dean said as cheerfully as he could manage, setting the grilled cheese on the table, mentally checking things off as he watched Sam chow down on the sandwich. There went the last of the bread and cheese, and they were already out of milk. They needed groceries, and badly. Dean sighed as Sammy ate, trying to decide what to do. He didn't want to leave Sam alone, but he didn't think that dragging his brother around after dark was the best idea either, and they didn't have anything for breakfast or lunch tomorrow. He finally made his decision.

"I'm going out to get some groceries," he said, standing up and rechecking salt lines as he spoke.

"Am I coming?" Sammy asked, and Dean shook his head.

"Just me, Sammy. You can stay here and watch TV, okay?" He went over every protection sigil he knew, drawing them lightly in pencil on the door.

"Okay Sammy, you can't let anyone in, right?"

"Right," Sam replied seriously. "My turn to pick the password?"

"Your turn," Dean agreed.

"Okay. You gotta say the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle song." Dean rolled his eyes.

"Which part, Sam?" He asked dejectedly, and Sam frowned, wrinkling up his forehead as if deep in thought.

"Splinter taught them to be ninja teens," he answered finally. "And you have to say 'he's a radical rat!' That's my favorite part." Dean hid his smile.

"Okay, Sammy. Don't let me in unless I say that."

"I won't!"

"Alright. I'll be back soon, okay?"

"Okay, Dean." Dean turned to leave when Sam's voice stopped him. "Dean!"

"Yeah Sammy?"

"Be careful."

Dean smiled. "I will." He walked out of the room, painfully aware of how inadequate his too-short and too-thin jacket was against the frigid night air. Walking faster, he hurried across the street and down the two blocks to the small mini-mart that he had been frequenting lately.

"Back again, little man?" the cashier asked from behind the counter. Dean nodded uncomfortably, not liking the fact that he had been here often enough in the past two weeks that he was being recognized. He quickly counted out his money and a loaf of bread, a jar of peanut butter, and a gallon of milk. Heading to the counter, he set everything down and pushed his money towards the clerk.

"Looks like some good food, little man. How's that little brother of yours?"

"He's fine," Dean grunted defensively, hoping that he was making it clear that he didn't feel like talking. Apparently it worked.

"Here's your change," the man said finally, shoving two quarters back to Dean. Dean's eyes widened, and he grinned.

"Really?" He asked, certain that he hadn't had any left over.

"Really," the clerk responded. Dean hesitated a second before picking a Snickers bar up and handing it to him. Sam would be thrilled.

"Have a good night," the man said as Dean collected the bag of groceries and stuffed the candy bar in his pocket. Dean paused.

"You too," he said finally before stepping outside. It seemed to have gotten even colder in the few moments he'd been inside, and Dean set himself a brisk pace, making good time as he neared the hotel. He stepped into the street quickly, glad that there didn't appear to be any traffic.

The car came out of nowhere. It didn't really fully hit him, but it clipped his left side and spun him around, sending him down into the ground hard. He grunted as the bag of groceries exploded and all of the air was driven out of his lungs, his side and leg becoming a solid mass of pain. The car drove off without stopping, leaving Dean lying face down on the concrete, trying to gather enough strength to push himself up. The milk had busted open and was trickling along the street, and the bread was scattered around him. Choking back a sob, Dean put a hand out to lever himself up and was startled when he felt the jar of peanut butter. With a groan, he pushed himself up and clutched the jar to his chest, looking blearily at his surroundings.

Taking a deep breath, he took a step and his left knee buckled immediately. Dean let out a yell of pain and tried to inspect the injured limb in the limited light, but all he could tell for sure was that it was already starting to swell. Dean blinked away tears as he once again managed to stand, this time balancing precariously on his right leg. Damn but it hurt! He limped a few feet forward, still holding onto the jar of peanut butter desperately, but soon had to stop, breath coming in heaving gasps that bordered dangerously on sobs.

It took him half an hour to make it the block back to the hotel, and by the time he got there, he couldn't hold the cries in any longer. Sinking onto a bench just outside the main office, he let himself cry for a solid five minutes, thin shoulders shaking, before roughly wiping the tears away and limping to the door of their room. He knocked and leaned heavily against the door.

"Password!" Sam's voice piped up, and Dean struggled not to groan. It was something to do with Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles…

"Donatello," he said, an he heard Sammy giggle.

"No, try again!"

"When the evil Shredder attacks, those turtle boys don't cut him no slack." His head was pounding and his whole body ached, and it was getting dangerously hard to think.

"No. Are you okay, Dean?" Sam's voice sounded concerned.

"Umm. Fine, Sammy." He paused for a minute and tried to gather his thoughts. "Splinter taught them…um, Splinter…"

"Taught them to be ninja teens," Sam answered, and the door unlocked. Dean nearly fell with it when it swung inward, and Sam looked at him worriedly. "Dean?"

"I'm okay Sammy," Dean said, taking deep breaths to stave off the light-headedness that was threatening to bring him to his knees.

"Did you bring some good food?" Sam asked as Dean tried to hide his limp. Dean all but collapsed onto the bed.

"Umm, I got some peanut butter," he answered, trying to ignore the way Sam's face fell. He suddenly remembered the candy bar and felt in his pocket. "And I got this." He withdrew his hand, holding out the slightly crushed Snickers.

"Snickers!" Sammy shouted. "We never get these!" He eagerly ripped the package open and broke the candy in half, holding one side out to Dean. Dean's stomach churned. There was no way he was eating anything right now.

"It's okay, Sammy, I already had one." He was too tired to even feel bad about the lie. Sam nodded and tore happily into the chocolate, giggling when the caramel stuck to his lips in strings.

"Sammy, I'm gonna take a bath, okay?" Dean said, needing to get away from his brother and somewhere he could look after his injuries. Sam stopped dead, his mouth open and brow furrowed.

"A bath? Only girls take baths, Dean." He looked absolutely horrified. Dean couldn't help but laugh, then try to hide the wince that came with it.

"Guess I'm a girl tonight, Sammy. You should probably go to bed. Why don't you brush your teeth before I get in, okay?" Sam nodded, looking at him suspiciously out of the corner of his eyes. When Sam disappeared into the bathroom, he allowed himself to fall onto his back, letting out a startled yelp when pain shot up his side. What the hell? Sammy's head appeared around the door.

"What was that?"

"N-nothing," Dean answered, trying not to sound as shaky as he felt. Sammy did not appear appeased. "I, uh, just stubbed my toe."

"Are you okay, Dean? You're acting funny," Sam said uncertainly, and Dean could tell that he was genuinely worried.

"Really, I'm fine Sammy," he repeated. "Just a little tired." And sore. And hungry. He managed to get himself off the bed without yelling in pain, but it was slow going and difficult, and the few feet to the bathroom seemed to take forever. He knew his limp was showing, badly, and the area in his side that had flared up earlier was clamoring for attention.

"Dean?"

"Yeah Sammy?" Dean asked wearily as he finally made it into the bathroom and collapsed onto the toilet.

"I'm scared." Dean sighed and closed his eyes. Of course Sammy was scared. He'd been having nightmares the past few days, and had usually ended up cuddled against Dean. He wouldn't want to sleep alone.

"Look, why don't you get in bed and turn off the lights, and I'll leave the door to the bathroom open. How's that?" There was a pause, and Dean could picture his little brother biting his lip uncertainly.

"Okay, Dean." The light switched off and Dean could hear Sammy crawling under the covers. He took a deep breath and eased his pants off, hissing quietly as they touched his swollen knee, then managed to get them past it. He winced as he took in the badly bruised joint, black and blue and purple, painful to the touch. He then eased his shirt up, nearly screaming when his side flared up so badly that it stole his breath away. Instinctively, Dean's hand flew to the spot and he gasped when his fingers brushed something.

Glass. He had a piece of glass sticking out of his side. Swiveling, Dean tried in vain to see it, tried to feel out where it was again. Finally, he started the bath water running and turned on the fan, then grabbed the cleanest washcloth he could find and tucked it between his teeth. Hopefully it would be enough to hide from Sam. He took a deep breath and grasped the glass as best he could, yanking quickly and screaming for all he was worth, the sound muffled. Tears leaking from his eyes, he felt the warm blood trickling from the wound and quickly sat over the tub so that it wouldn't make a mess on the floor.

"Dean?" Sam asked, and Dean swallowed the sob that was threatening to erupt.

"Y-yeah?" He wasn't sure how big the wound was, but he needed to wash it out, and he couldn't see it. It seemed like getting in the bath was the best thing to do, but he wasn't sure. What would Dad do?

"What's that song you sing sometimes?" Dean gently lowered himself into the tub, tears coursing down his cheeks as every single bruise on his battered body made itself known.

"What song?" He managed to gasp, head swimming. Stay calm, Dean. You're okay.

"Hey Dude."

"Hey D-dude?" Dean repeated, fuzzily trying to discern his little brother's question.

"You sing it sometimes, in the dark. When Daddy isn't here." It clicked suddenly, and Dean wanted to cry even more than before.

"Hey Jude," he said quietly. "You mean Hey Jude."

"Yeah, that one," Sammy said. "Where'd you learn it? Daddy's never singed it."

"Umm," Dean said, biting his lip as another wave of pain washed over him. The bath didn't seem to be helping all that much, and the water was tinged red. It was disconcerting.

"Mom used to sing it to me." There was silence from his little brother, and Dean allowed his eyes to slide shut.

"Can you sing it, Dean?" Damn it. Dean could barely keep himself awake…

"I'm not feeling very good, Sammy," he said, but closed his eyes when he heard Sam sniffle.

"I just- I miss her," Sammy said quietly, and Dean sighed.

"Okay, Sammy. You need to go to sleep, okay? Promise if I sing you'll go to sleep."

"I promise, Dean." Dean took a shaky breath, blinking tears from his eyes, and started singing.

"Hey Jude…"

Five minutes later, he could hear Sam's soft snores, and decided that it was time for him to get out. It was rough going, and by the end he was sobbing quietly, towel wrapped gingerly around his waist as he gripped the counter and tried not to pass out. He took a bandage and held it in place over the wound on his side as best he could, then wrapped tape around it. Finishing that, he gingerly pulled his shirt over his head, slowly pulled his boxers on, and retrieved an ice pack from the freezer. Lying down, he held the ice pack on his knee, and cried quietly, tears streaming down his face and dampening his pillow. And in the darkness, mingling with the sound of quiet snores and muffled sobs, the lyrics to 'Hey Jude' floated on the air.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Thanks as always for the great reviews, and as I think I forgot to disclaim the Winchesters in the last chapter, I officially do so here.

xxxx

"Dean! Deean!" From somewhere in the blackness that he had fallen into, Dean could hear Sammy yelling for him. For a second, he allowed himself to stay wherever he was, the dull pain he felt a sure indicator that once he reached full consciousness he would be in a world of hurt, but Sammy needed him and he couldn't let him down.

"Sammy?" He murmured groggily, prying his eyelids open and trying not to wince. His whole body was throbbing, the aches and pains pulsing outward, his knee and side the epicenters, and Sam's distressed cries were not helping any.

"Dean, you slept in! I'm gonna be late for school!" Sam sounded on the very edge of bursting into tears, something Dean wasn't sure he could handle right now, so he forced himself into a sitting position and rubbed at his eyes, trying to force himself to be more coherent. Sammy was dressed in his favorite outfit, Batman shirt under a bright yellow blazer, with his backpack already slung over thin shoulders.

"Okay Sam, just give me a second, buddy," Dean said soothingly, trying to radiate calm and quiet to his fidgeting brother. Damn but his head was pounding. He swung his right leg over the bed then gently moved the left knee beside it, breath escaping in a quiet hiss as he did so. He took a deep breath and stood, left knee immediately trying to buckle. Dean was ready though, and grasped at the nightstand with a white-knuckled grip, forcing himself to remain upright. It was with relief that Dean noted that Sam was bouncing with anxiety, staring at the door and too busy to notice Dean's weakness.

"Dean, I'm never late! What if my teacher hates me?" Sam wailed, and Dean smiled slightly despite the situation. The better question was how the hell he was going to get himself, let alone his little brother to school.

"She won't hate you," Dean answered quietly, smiling reassuringly. "I promise, Sammy." Sam seemed to be appeased for the moment, so Dean started to limp towards the bathroom. A sudden thought struck him.

"Could you open the blinds for me, Sam?" He asked, and Sam frowned.

"We aren't s'posed to do that," the six year old responded.

"I know, Sammy," Dean answered between grit teeth. His knee was threatening collapse again, and he tried to hurry his slow steps toward the bathroom. "Just do it, would you?" Sam finally complied, and Dean sighed when his theory was confirmed. It appeared to have snowed close to half a foot overnight, and it was still coming down.

"Sammy, can you turn on the TV?" Dean asked, turning back towards the bed. It seemed so far away now…

"Dean! You're s'posed to be getting ready to take me to school!" Sam yelled, and Dean winced as his head ached even more.

"Sam," Dean said in a tone he rarely used. Sam glared at him, bottom lip sticking out, and marched to the TV, flicking it on angrily. The picture was fuzzy at first, then morphed into a news anchor.

"And due to the snow, all of the schools in this county have been cancelled for the day. Numerous schools have reported frozen pipes and other problems following this record-setting storm. In other news-"

"No!" Sammy yelled, staring open-mouthed and panicked at the television. "They _cancelled school_, Dean!"

"It's okay, Sam," Dean said. It was more than okay. It was a lifesaver.

"No, it isn't! Today we were going to make art with Miss Davis, and we were gonna use macaroni and glue it to the paper, and we were gonna get to use glitter!"

"Well Sammy, instead you get to stay home with your awesome big brother and watch cartoons. Okay? It'll be fun." Sam sat despondently on the floor, removing crayons and a coloring book from his backpack with a solemnity rarely seen outside of funerals. He then flung the backpack into the corner, and Dean sighed.

"Okay Sam, you can pout if you want to, but I'm gonna get dressed." Sam didn't respond, and Dean rolled his eyes. He limped to the foot of the bed and pulled the cleanest clothes he could manage from his suitcase. Back to the bathroom, and this time Dean wasn't sure he could make it. His knee had turned into a mass of pulsating agony, and his side felt slightly slick, maybe from sweat but probably from blood. Gritting his teeth, he managed to limp/stumble to the door, where he stood trembling for a second, his grip on the old doorframe the only thing preventing him from collapse. Sammy didn't say anything, so Dean guessed he probably hadn't noticed. He wasn't sure how much longer he could keep that up.

Upon finally arriving at the elusive bathroom, Dean managed to haul himself inside, shutting the door quickly behind him. Collapsing onto the toilet, he breathed in heaving gasps, trembling fingers pulling his shirt gingerly over his head. He unwound the bandage with only a few hisses of pain, horrified to notice that blood had seeped all the way through._ Shit! _ He didn't know what else to do, so he carefully got new supplies and wrapped the wound again, tighter this time than before. That would have to hold.

Stripping his pajama bottoms down, he winced at the sight of his knee. It was horribly swollen and he couldn't straighten it out completely, and it didn't seem like the ice had done much to help. He slowly managed to pull on his clothes, tears streaming down his face by the time he was finished, breath coming in harsh half-sobs.

"Dean," Sam's voice called through the door, the whining tone clear. Dean didn't want to know what was coming. "Dean, I'm hungry." Dean barely had time to lurch to his feet and flip on the fan before bursting into tears, bawling as he remembered that all he had left was a jar of peanut butter and no money.

"Dean?" Dean forced himself to quit crying, wiping quickly at his cheeks and trying to take deep breaths.

"Just a sec, Sammy," he answered, and forced himself up to his feet. Walking slowly, he limped to the door, his knee feeling on the verge of giving out the entire time.

"Dean, all I could find was peanut butter," Sammy whined, and Dean nodded painfully.

"I know, Sammy. I'm gonna go get some more food, okay?"

"You got more food yesterday, Dean."

"I guess I forgot some stuff, Sammy. It's okay, though, I'll just go get some more." The thought of going out into the snow and walking all the way to the market was the last thing he wanted to do, but Dean honestly couldn't think of another solution.

"Am I coming?" The way he asked it made it clear that he didn't want to go, and Dean suspected that it had as much to do with Sam still being upset with him as it did the weather.

"No Sammy, just me."He didn't want Sam out in the cold, and he didn't want Sam seeing what he was going to do. Sam nodded and turned the TV on, flipping through channels like a seasoned pro. "My turn to pick password, right?" Sam nodded.

"Starscream," Dean said, and Sammy glared at him.

"Starscream is a bad guy! He's a De-Decectipon!"

"Decepticon, Sammy, and he's the coolest Transformer even if he is a bad guy."

"No he isn't! I'm not saying that, Dean."

"Good, cause you don't have to. I do. I'll be back soon, okay? You know how it works, don't let anyone in."

"I know, Dean." Dean paused at the door, trying not to be disappointed when Sam remained silent, and headed out into the cold.

Two blocks and close to an hour later, Dean limped painfully into the store, finding an empty aisle and allowing himself to slide to the floor. Five minutes of deep breaths and a few errant tears and Dean pushed himself up to his feet. His knee gave way immediately, and he nearly took an entire display over with him when he struggled to regain some balance, but he finally made it, limping painfully towards the bread. He didn't think he could hide it very well, but he'd seen a few other people in the store and was hoping he could walk out with them without the cashier noticing.

Making his way painfully towards the front of the store, he stopped dead in his tracks when he recognized the cashier.

"Hey little guy, weren't you just in here?" The man asked, and Dean nodded slowly. "You don't look so good. Are you okay?" Again, Dean nodded, staring at the floor. "You going to buy that?" Dean hung his head, toe scuffing on the floor. He mumbled something unintelligible and put the bread up on the counter, turning to leave.

"Hey. Hang on, kid." Dean didn't stop, face burning and head pounding. "Are you okay?" Dean shrugged, trying to stop the tears from falling even as his bottom lip started trembling. "You can't pay for this can you?" Dean remained silent.

"Stay here. You leave, I call the cops, got it?" Dean's eyes widened. He knew that he couldn't outrun the cashier in his condition, and he was essentially stuck. His side was hurting even worse than it had been and his leg was starting to shake as he struggled to remain standing, and it finally gave out, sending him ungracefully to the floor.

"Oh, buddy," the cashier said suddenly, squatting in front of Dean. He had two bags full of groceries and set them down on the floor, gently lifting Dean up. "You need help. Let me call an ambulance for you, okay?" Dean shook his head. "Please, kid."

"Why are you helping m-me?" Dean whispered, his voice trembling.

"I have three little boys at home, and if one of them needed help, I hope someone would. I don't know your story, but you need help, kid, and I can do that. Are you okay to get home?" He cast a suspicious look at Dean, who tried to straighten himself.

"Yes, sir. Th-Thank you, sir." He collected the bags of food in his arms and limped out the door.

"Hey kid?" The cashier called, and Dean paused. "Be careful." Dean could feel the tears coming to his eyes and wondered vaguely when he'd turned into such a girl.

It was biting cold outside. Dean's jacket was too small, and his fingers ached. His face stung with the wind, and the groceries seemed to weigh down his arms. One block, six short rests, and forty five minutes into his trek home, Dean could feel a cough building in his chest, and once the first one erupted, more seemed to follow without pause. He managed to keep stumbling forward, but he was growing light-headed and his leg was giving out with every step now.

Another hour and he somehow found himself at the motel door. He had little recollection of walking the last block, his head was swimming, and his chest ached from coughing and from bruises. He could feel warm blood trickling down his back.

"Password!" Sammy yelled from inside.

"S-S-Starscream," Dean managed before another coughing fit overtook him.

"Dean?" Sam asked, eyes wide as he swung the door open.

"Here ya g-go, S-Sammy," Dean muttered, setting the bags on the table.

"Dean? Dean!" Sam's voice was panicked and high-pitched and Dean wanted to tell him that it was okay, but the room was spinning and darkness seemed to be crowding his vision, and as he felt his knee give way yet again, Dean felt himself surrendering entirely into the black.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Sorry if I didn't mention this before; Dean is 10 and Sammy is 6 in this story. Thanks again for all the reviews!

xxxx

Sammy was starting to get worried. There weren't any more cartoons on TV and his coloring book had lost all interest for him. He was sure that Dean should be back by now, and he was bored and hungry. Sitting at the small table, he looked dejectedly at the single jar of peanut butter and contemplated it for a moment before picking it up. He had just unscrewed the lid and was about to stick his finger in it when there was a knock at the door, heavier than usual.

"Dean!" He yelped, leaping up and running to the door. "Password!" He paused expectantly, startled when he heard a barking cough instead of the expected password.

"S-S-Starscream," he heard finally, just before another round of coughing.

"Dean?" Sam said hesitantly, opening the door. Dean looked terrible.

"Here ya go, S-Sammy," he mumbled, setting the groceries on the table.

"Dean?" Sammy repeated, worried when his brother's face seemed to lose all color. "Dean!" Dean swayed for a second, then his eyes rolled up in his head and he fell heavily to the ground, narrowly missing clocking his head on the table. For a second, Sam stood there too stunned to do anything, the door wide open and snow fluttering into the room. He finally realized what was happening and rushed to the door, slamming it shut. Turning back to his brother, Sammy found himself terrified. Dean hadn't moved an inch, his left leg bent awkwardly and his head tilted away from Sam.

"Dean?" He asked tentatively, feeling tears threatening as he knelt next to his still brother. "Dean?" He reached a hand out and was shocked at how cold his brother felt. As if on cue, Dean started shivering violently, teeth clattering together.

"Hang on, I'll be right back," he said. Dean might not have heard him, but he didn't really care. He stood and walked to the nearest bed, yanking the comforter off of it, then tucked it snugly around Dean's shaking form. Sitting down next to Dean, Sammy tried to figure out what he should do. He tried to remember what Daddy did when he was sick, but most of the time he was the one who was ill, and he couldn't remember what he needed to do.

"Dean? Please wake up. Please?" He shook Dean's shoulder but didn't get a response. "Dean! Come on! Wake up!" He couldn't stop the tears now, shoulders shaking as he curled up next to the older boy's prone body.

He wasn't sure how much time passed before Dean started to stir next to him.

"Dean? Dean? Please wake up, come on, Dean," he said desperately, tapping Dean's cheek. Green eyes blinked heavily open and peered at Sam.

"Sammy?" He mumbled, licking his lips, and Sam nodded.

"Yeah, it's me Dean. Are you okay? What's wrong with you?" Dean stared at him blearily before trying to lever himself to a sitting position, wincing in pain. Sam gripped his arm and helped pull him upright, frowning at the way Dean was panting, coughs erupting every few seconds.

"Sammy," he gasped, settling a trembling hand on Sam's shoulder. "I'm gonna need your help, o-okay? Can you do that?" Sammy nodded seriously, looking intently at Dean. "Okay, you know what the f-first aid kit looks like?"

"Yeah, I know!" Sam shouted, lowering his voice when Dean winced. "I know," he repeated quietly. Dean managed a smile, but it didn't look very happy.

"I need you to get it for me, can you do that? And could you bring me a glass of water?" Sammy nodded vigorously, then bounded to Dean's duffle. Daddy always took the big first-aid kit, but he left a little one with Dean, stocked with Batman band-aids that Sammy could use when he skinned his elbows or knees. It only took him a few minutes to find it, but the glass of water proved more difficult. He got his favorite cup (it had all four ninja turtles, plus Casey and April) and filled it to the very brim. Carrying it back to Dean was challenging, the first-aid kit clutched in one hand, the cup in the other, his tongue sticking out as he concentrated on not spilling anything. Finally reaching Dean's side, he thrust the cup out triumphantly, grinning.

"I got it for you, Dean!" He yelled, and Dean closed his eyes for a second. Sammy felt bad. "Did that make your ears hurt?" He asked quietly, looking down when Dean nodded slightly.

"'S okay, Sammy," Dean said, but his voice sounded funny, raspy and deeper than usual. Sam frowned at him as he drank the water.

"What's wrong with you, Dean?" He asked, then marched forward and plastered his hand against Dean's forehead. "You feel hot," he declared solemnly, though he had no idea what 'hot' felt like. Dean laughed a little bit, then started coughing again.

"I'm just a little bit sick, Sammy. Just a cold." Sam watched intently as Dean set the water down and started rifling through the first-aid kit. He pulled out a little bottle of pills, then a wad of something that Sammy recognized as bandages.

"Whaddya need bandages for, Dean? If it's a cold, what're they gonna do?"

Dean took a deep breath. "Sammy, I want you to listen to me, kay? You can't freak out. Promise not to freak out?"

"I promise, Dean."

"Okay. I've got an- an owie on my back. And I'm gonna need your help again to fix it. Think you can do that?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. Just a sec, Sammy." Sam watched as Dean carefully eased his shirt off, hissing in pain. Sam's eyes widened as he saw his brother's back. There was a bandage but it had turned red, and there was dried blood running in a line towards Dean's pants.

"D-Dean, this is bad," Sam said, feeling tears come to his eyes. "You're hurt bad! What're we gonna do? Where's Daddy?" He felt himself start breathing faster. He didn't know exactly what was going on, but he knew that a lot of blood was bad news, and he knew that he'd never, ever bled that much when he'd needed a Batman band-aid. And he knew that he needed Daddy.

"Sam, it's-it's okay. You p-promised," Dean said, and Sammy could hear his voice shake. That didn't sound okay to Sam. "I need you to help me, okay? If I hold my arms up, could you unwrap the old bandage? Could you do that for me, Sammy?"

"Yeah, Dean," Sammy whispered, but he didn't want to touch the blood. It made his stomach feel funny.

"You can do it, little brother," Dean said softly, and Sam nodded resolutely. He reached trembling fingers forward and started to unwrap the bandage, wincing every time Dean moaned under his breath.

"Sorry Dean, I'm sorry," Sam muttered, trying not to stare at the reddened bandage that was drifting to the floor. He finally got down to the last wrapping, pausing when he realized that the bandage was stuck to Dean's back.

"Umm, Dean, it's stuck," Sammy said, his voice shaking.

"I know, Sammy, you gotta just take it off, okay? Try to do it fast, like a band-aid." Sam swallowed thickly, tears coming to his eyes. He counted to three in his head, then yanked at the bandage. Dean screamed, body bucking away from him, and Sam saw fresh blood start flowing again.

"Dean, you're bleeding. Dean? Dean!" Sam cried, panic settling firmly in.

"Gotta bandage it again," Dean muttered, but Sammy saw his head drooping forward.

"Dean? Are you falling asleep? You can't sleep right now. Dean!" Dean's head came up again.

"Sammy," he gasped, coughing again. "You gotta help me, o-okay? Bandage it a-again."

"Dean, I can't, there's blood. I don't know what to do!"

"Sammy, l-listen to me. You've done a r-really good job helping me so f-far. You can do this, I-I know you can." Sam nodded, unwrapping the fresh bandage and moving closer to Dean. Dean gripped the end and held it tightly to his side. Sammy stood up and started winding the bandage around his brother's body.

"Tighter, Sammy," Dean mumbled, and Sam complied, tears spilling over as Dean whimpered.

"Dean, am I hurting you?" He asked, but Dean shook his head. Sam kept going.

"Sammy," Dean whispered, and Dean stopped, looking at Dean's pale face. He looked as white as his sneakers had been when they were new.

"I'm g-gonna fall a-asleep soon," he said, and Sammy shook his head.

"You can't, Dean! I don't know what to do!"

"'S okay, S-Sam. H-help me to the bed, okay? And th-then I need you to put an i-ice pack on my knee. Can you d-do that?" Sam looked at him, bottom lip trembling.

"What happened to your knee, Dean?" He asked, even as he tucked himself under Dean's arm, struggling to stand with Dean's weight bearing down on him. Dean appeared to be having trouble getting his feet under him.

"Just h-hurt it, Sammy," Dean mumbled, then started coughing again. They stumbled to the bed, and Dean collapsed onto it. Sam raced to get the ice pack and put it over Dean's knee (which looked really gross), then tucked the blankets up under his brother's chin.

"Dean? Dean, what should I do?" He asked, but Dean was asleep already. Sammy put his head on Dean's forehead again, and this time was startled when he could _tell_ Dean was too hot. Tentatively, he put a hand to his own forehead, then back on Dean's. Definitely hot. Sammy didn't know what to do. He finally laid down next to his brother, one arm flung over Dean's stomach, and cried himself to sleep.

xxxx

A/N: John will finally be making an appearance in the next chapter!


	4. Chapter 4

When the motel finally came into view, John allowed himself to release a sigh of relief and lightly fingered the line of stitches that twisted around his forearm. The hunt had gone longer, and worse, than he expected and the bad weather had prevented him from coming home to his boys for an extra day and a half, and though he was confident that Dean could handle himself and Sammy, he was worried about them. Climbing slowly out of the car and stretching his back out as he stood, John shouldered his duffle and walked quickly up to the door. Almost immediately he could tell something was wrong. He could hear…_something_ coming from inside the room, a high-pitched sound that he couldn't place. His heart started thudding loudly in his ears and he forced himself to take calm, deep breaths.

Drawing his gun, he took a step back, then kicked the door in. he was anything but prepared for what he found. Sammy was sitting in a corner of the room, knees drawn up, wailing. He was screaming as he hadn't done since he was a toddler, his face red and slick with tears. He seemed to only pause to draw breath, otherwise just bawling. The next thing he saw was Dean, who appeared to be dragging himself across the floor.

"What the hell? Dean!" John barked, dropping next to his oldest son. It was only then that he realized why Sam was screaming. Dean's face was flushed and his eyes were out of focus, tears streaming down his face. He was mumbling something, obviously extremely worried.

"The baby's crying Daddy, I gotta get the baby," he said, over and over again. John realized with a sinking heart that Dean was delirious and burning up.

"Dean, shh, it's okay, I'm here now. The baby's okay," John said quietly, gathering his sweltering son into his arms. Dean shook his head and thrashed weakly, voice raising.

"No! I gotta help Sammy! Lemme go!" John took a deep breath, feeling the beginnings of panic creeping back in. He was going to have to take care of Sam first. He stood up and walked to his youngest son's side, kneeling down next to him.

"Hey, Sammy. It's Daddy. You okay?" He asked, resting a calloused hand on Sam's knee. Sam shook his head, but his sobs abated slightly. He was hiccupping for air between cries. "What's wrong, kiddo?"

"Dean doesn't know who I am," Sammy whispered finally, scrubbing at his eyes with a chubby little fist. "He won't talk to me. And he's hurted, Daddy, there was lotsa blood." Not even deep breaths helped John's panic level now.

"Well I'm here now, and we're gonna take care of your brother, okay? I'm gonna need your help, kiddo." To his surprise, Sam started crying again and buried his head in his knees. "Sammy?"

"That's what he said! But I helped him and he didn't get better!"

What the hell had his sons been through?

"It's not going to be like that this time. Do you hear me Sam? We're going to take care of him, together, and he's going to get better. Okay?" He used his firmest Marine voice, trying to keep it from shaking. Sammy seemed to take heart from this, and he looked up and nodded.

"Okay, kiddo. Come here." John enveloped his youngest in a hug, feeling the shuddering form against him, simultaneously loving as Sam burrowed his head into his shoulder and hating that he needed to. John stood and picked Sammy up with him, going to Dean's side. Setting Sammy on the bed, John knelt down next to Dean. He was no longer mumbling, but was lying on his stomach on the floor, glassy eyes flicking around the room as though he were looking for something.

"Hey buddy," John whispered, gently lifting Dean up. Dean screamed and arched away from him, and Sammy sniffled behind him on the bed. John felt tears coming to his eyes. "Okay kid, let's figure out what's going on with you, huh?" Gently, John started looking and feeling over his son, searching for breaks or contusions. The knee was the first thing he found, swollen and discolored. John knew without even further inspection that this was not something he could handle on his own. He knew without further looking that this could permanently hurt his son, and he swore passionately under his breath.

Still, as bad as the knee was, it wasn't bloody and didn't explain the fever. Almost fearfully, John lifted Dean's shirt from his son's thin body, sucking in a gasp of air as he took in the damage to his boy's back. There was dried blood streaking down from beneath a bandage, and the bandage itself was discolored. Dean started to breathe more quickly as John gently began unwrapping the bandage, and John realized that he sounded congested. Great. The wound was almost certainly infected, and it sounded as if Dean had a chest cold, maybe even bronchitis or pneumonia on top of it.

"Deep breaths, buddy," he said quietly as he got to the last wrap of bandage. "Breathe like me, Dean, breathe like Daddy." Dean managed to gulp down a few deeper breaths before giving in to a hacking cough that had John cringing.

"Sammy? Could you get me a wet washcloth, kiddo?" Sam nodded and slid hesitantly off the bed. "Go quick, Sammy." John ran a hand through Dean's sweaty hair, listening as the tap started running.

"You're gonna by okay, buddy. You hear me Dean? Hang in there for Daddy, okay?"

What the hell had happened? John felt like the worst father in the world, cradling his trembling, delirious son in his arms, feeling the heat pouring off his son and making his own skin hotter than comfortable. He winced as Dean fell into another fit of coughing, realizing as he held him through it just how thin his oldest had gotten.

"Daddy?" Dean mumbled, turning feebly in his arms and peering at his face. "Sammy-Sammy was crying."

"Yeah, he was crying, but he's okay now, Dean. You just need to stay still, okay? Let me fix you up." Dean nodded slightly, and John could see his bottom lip trembling.

"Hurts, Daddy," he whispered, burying his head in John's shoulder as if he were ashamed.

"I know, Dean, I know," John answered, stroking Dean's hair and trying to remain calm.

"Daddy?" Sammy said quietly. He held up a sopping wet washcloth that John took gratefully, then sat down next to Dean. "Is he okay, Dad?"

"He's going to be," John answered firmly. "Dean? I'm gonna get your bandage wet so we can take it off, okay? It's gonna be cold, kiddo." Dean managed a tired nod, head still tucked into John's shoulder. Gently, John soaked the bandage, trying to ignore Dean's small whimpers of pain and hacking coughs. Finally satisfied that he could get it off with minimal pain, John eased the bandage off of Dean's back, biting back the exclamation that came to mind. The wound itself was crusted with dried blood and was red and inflamed, and a yellowy pus was oozing out of it.

"No wonder you've got a fever, buddy," John muttered, staring in horror at the wound. He could feel Sammy trying to see around him and tried to shift so that he blocked Sam's view, but it didn't work. He heard Sammy give out a small exclamation and then start crying again, breaths coming so fast he was bordering on hyperventilation. Dean stirred, lifting his head slowly and reaching a trembling hand out to his little brother.

"S'mmy?" He slurred, and Sam gripped his hand tightly.

"You're hurt, Dean," Sammy whispered. "It looks really yucky."

"'S okay, Sammy," Dean said quietly. "I'm…" his voice trailed off.

"Dean?" Sammy whimpered, and John's heart started racing as Dean went completely limp against him.

"Hey buddy, you still with me?" He asked, gently shaking his son. Dean's head lolled loosely. "Shit." He quickly cupped a hand to Dean's small forehead, alarmed to discover that the fever seemed to have risen just in the few minutes since he'd been home.

"Okay Sammy, I need you to get dressed for me, okay? We're taking Dean to the doctor."

"We only go to the doctor if it's really bad."

"He's going to be okay, Sammy. Go get your coat and your shoes, kiddo." Sammy plodded past him and John could hear him going through his bag.

"Hey Dean, how you doing?" John whispered, though he knew Dean was unconscious. "You hang in there, buddy." _Don't you leave me and Sammy._

"Here Daddy," Sam said, holding out Dean's coat to John.

"Thanks Sammy." He already had his coat on, and to John's surprise his shoes were already tied.

"You tied your shoes on your own," he said as he maneuvered Dean's limp arm into one sleeve.

"Dean teached me," Sammy answered. John shouldn't have been surprised, but he was, pausing for the slightest minute before getting Dean's other arm in the coat. He grabbed the comforter and bundled Dean into it, gently wrapping him up until only his head was visible.

"Can you get the door, Sammy?" Sam nodded seriously and opened the door for John, who walked carefully through it, walking sideways to keep Dean from hitting the frame. Sammy closed the door behind them and jiggled the knob, satisfied that it was locked.

"Can you sit in the back with your brother, Sam? You're gonna need to tell me if anything changes, like his breathing. Do you think you can do that?" For a split second, John thought about what he was doing. He was asking his six year old son to tell him if his older brother stopped breathing. _Mary, please forgive me for this. _

"Yeah Daddy, I can take care of him."

"Good boy." Sam clambered into the car and scooted across the seat, watching closely as John eased Dean down, settling his head in Sam's lap. John loosened the blanket slightly, wincing at the rattling breaths Dean was taking, and smiled at Sammy, cupping his cheek.

"Thank you for being such a good brother," he said quietly, and Sam frowned.

"Dean's the good brother," he answered, resting his hand on Dean's head. His fingers curled in his brother's sweaty hair. "He took care of me, Daddy. He got groceries and everthing for me cause I was hungry and-and now he's sick."

"This wasn't your fault, kiddo. You just look out for him." John shut the door and hurried to the front seat, cranking the heater up and peeling out of the parking lot. He was grateful that he'd noticed the hospital signs on the way home, but he knew that it was a good fifteen minutes away, and he honestly wasn't sure how long Dean could hold on. He muttered prayers under his breath as he drove.

"Daddy?"

"Yeah Sammy? How's Dean?"

"He's the same. Daddy, is Dean-is Dean gonna fall asleep forever?" The question took John by surprise, and he glanced quickly in the rearview mirror, assuring himself that Dean was still breathing. Sam looked terrified.

"No, Dean's not gonna fall asleep forever. He's going to be just fine." He wondered if his words sounded as hollow to Sam as they did to him.

"Mommy did." John nearly stopped the car. His eyes grew blurry and he shook his head to keep focused on the road. "Dean said Mommy fell asleep forever. He said she has nice dreams about happy things, and she's never sad again." John swallowed the lump in his throat.

"Dean's right, Sammy. Mommy's happy. But your brother isn't going to do that."

"What if he wants to? Maybe he doesn't want to be sad anymore, Daddy."

"He won't, damn it! Dean wants to stay here, with us. He's happy with you, Sammy, and he isn't going to die!" John regretted yelling as soon as he did, Sammy sniffling quietly in the back seat, but damn it, his emotions were all over the place, and Sam's questions sure as hell weren't helping.

The car was silent for a few minutes, quiet but for the hitching gasps coming from Dean. John was tempted to flick on the radio, listen to some AC/DC, but it seemed massively inappropriate, somehow.

The silence didn't last very long.

"Daddy!" It was a startled yelp from Sam that had John immediately looking for a place to pull over.

"What's wrong, Sam?" He barked, almost afraid of the answer.

"He won't stop moving! Ow! He hit me, Daddy, and he looks funny!" _Shit. _John pulled over quickly and raced to the back seat. Dean's eyes were rolled back and his body was stiff, his limbs flailing. His lips were starting to turn blue.

"Okay, I'm gonna turn him onto his side, Sammy, and you've got to make sure he doesn't fall on the floor. Don't hold his arms, Sam, and tell me as soon as he stops, okay? I've got to keep going."

If he thought it was hard to ask a six year old to check his brother's breathing, it was a thousand times worse to ask a six year old to hold his seizing brother.

The Impala roared back into life as John ignored every stop sign and speed limit he passed, driving with sweaty palms and thudding heart as he screamed towards the hospital.

"Dad, he stopped," Sammy announced, and John glanced quickly at his watch. Six minutes. Definitely not good. He sighed in relief as the hospital came into view, and he pressed down on the pedal even harder than he had been.

"Daddy! I can't hear him! I can't hear him breathing!"


	5. Chapter 5

John could've sworn his heart he felt his heart stop with Sammy's startled shout before it started pounding again, faster than before. He pulled into the ambulance bay, ignoring both the signs and the security guy who tried to stop him, and leapt out the car, circling around to the back seat. Sammy was frantic, sobbing and shaking Dean's shoulder. Dean was pale and still, his lips tinged faintly blue, freckles standing out starkly against milky white skin. John reached in and scooped his oldest son up, cradling the lifeless form to his chest, tucking the lolling head against his shoulder.

"Come on, Sam!" He barked, and maybe John would've felt bad about not comforting his youngest if he wasn't so terrified about Dean. He barreled into the ER, opening the door butt-first and trying not to think about how limply Dean's arm was swinging.

"I need help!" John bellowed, and much as he disliked medical institutions in general, the speed with which this medical staff reacted was good enough to impress him. A gurney seemed to simply appear at his side, and Dean was quickly shifted onto it, his small form swarmed by doctors and nurses and who knew what else.

"What's his name?" Someone called out, and John looked up.

"Dean," he said, his voice coming out quietly, raspy.

"Dean, can you hear me?" Another faceless voice asked.

"He's in full respiratory arrest," one man said, looking up from where he had a stethoscope pressed to Dean's chest. Someone else produced a mask and started squeezing a bag over Dean's mouth and nose. John blinked back tears.

"He had a seizure," he said, snagging the nearest nurse by the sleeve. "Lasted about six minutes. Happened right before he stopped breathing." The nurse nodded curtly.

"Thank you, sir. If you'll head that way-" she pointed towards the admitting desk "-you can get the paperwork you need to fill out for your son."

"Let's move him to Trauma 3," someone said, and John ignored the nurse and moved to follow his son, when a small cry stopped him in his tracks.

"Dean!" A tiny, dark haired blur flew past John and after Dean's gurney, and John only just managed to catch hold of his youngest, wrapping his arms around Sammy's small form.

"No! Daddy, let me go! Dean! Dean!" Sam threw all of his weight toward the floor, twisting and contorting his body in an attempt to escape his father's grasp.

"Whoa, Sam, knock it off!" John yelled, shifting his grip to better hold Sam's wriggling form.

"No!" Sam screamed, fists flailing. John grunted as he tried to contain his son and got a fist to the face for his efforts.

"Sammy you've got to stop!" John cried. "Please kiddo, come on," he said quietly, lowering his voice to a soothing tone. Sammy seemed to wilt in his arms, turning his head in towards John's chest, hands fisting in his father's shirt as he started to sob.

"There you go, shh, it's okay, it's okay, Sammy," John whispered, stroking Sam's long hair with his calloused hands. Sam needed to get it cut, he thought absently.

"Excuse me, sir?" John looked up.

"John," he said.

"John. You need to move your car." It was the security officer that he'd practically run over. John looked down at Sam then back up at the man. The officer sighed.

"If you give me your keys, I can move it," he said finally, and John fished them out of his pocket gratefully.

"Thanks," he murmured, and the officer shrugged.

"Not normally in the valet service, but…" he shrugged again, a lopsided grin on his face. "You've got a damn beauty of a car."

"Thanks," John said, managing a wan smile, but it seemed massively inappropriate to be talking about the Impala when it had so recently been filled with Dean's gasps for air…He spaced out again, barely registered when his keys were handed back to him, focused solely on Sam and on the doors that he'd seen Dean swept through.

"Excuse me, sir?" Again, really?

"John," John answered without looking up.

"John, I need you to come with me." Something in her tone made John look up. It was a nurse. There was a tiny spot of blood on her green top, and John's eyes widened.

"No," he whispered, dread clutching his heart in a grip painfully tight. He clung tighter to Sam.

"No, no, he's still with us, John, but he's disoriented and we think he could use a familiar face," the nurse said quickly, and John took a deep breath.

"Sammy? I'm gonna leave you here for a minute, okay kiddo?" Sammy shook his head and buried his face further into John's shirt. "Come on, buddy." Sam started crying again, and John took a deep breath. He had no idea how he was going to get out of this one.

"Excuse me, but maybe I could help?" John turned to see a woman, probably in her late 50s or early 60s looking at him. "I'm sorry, but I couldn't help overhearing. My husband is getting x-rayed—damn fool still thinks he's 30—and I don't mind sitting with your son." John looked at her suspiciously. The woman laughed.

"No need to look at me that way. I've had boys of my own, seen 'em through thick and thin, and I'm just waiting for one of them to give me a grandkid already. No harm will come to your son, I promise you that."

"And we can make sure we have a security guard in here," the nurse added, and the woman nodded in agreement.

John glanced from the woman to the nurse and realized that he really had no choice.

"Okay then," he said finally, shifting Sam in his arms. "Sammy, you're going to sit with-"

"Mattie," the woman offered.

"You're going to sit with Mattie," John said. "Just for a little while, okay kiddo? She's going to take good care of you while I go help Dean, okay?" Sam shook his head, whimpering slightly, but Mattie came up behind him and started patting his back.

"Hi, Sammy right?" Sam hid his face in John's shirt. "Why don't you come sit with me? I think I have some fruit snacks in my bag. Should we go check?" Sam looked up, tears streaked down his face.

"You're helping Dean, right?" He said, staring intently at John.

"That's right, Sammy. I'm gonna go help Dean."

"Okay," Sam said finally, nodding firmly. He turned to Mattie and offered her a wan half-smile. "I'll come sit with you."

"Good boy," John whispered, setting Sam down on the floor. Immediately, Mattie offered her hand to Sammy, and he gripped it tightly, walking slowly away from John and his brother and towards the waiting room.

John watched him go with a small smile that didn't reach his eyes, then turned back to the nurse.

"Okay Mr…?"

"Winchester."

"Okay, if you'll follow me this way," she said, leading John past those swinging doors that seemed so foreboding.

Dean was in bad shape. He was on his side, with an oxygen mask on his face and heart monitor leads on his chest, and he was reaching up every few seconds to tug at the mask. John was immensely relieved to note that he wasn't on a ventilator, that they had apparently gotten him breathing again.

"The fever is making him delusional, and he's in some distress," the nurse said, leading John to Dean's side. The white sea of medical personnel parted and made a gap for John, who suddenly found himself crouching down next to Dean's head, running a hand through Dean's hair, thumbing his forehead soothingly.

"Hey buddy," he whispered, gently catching the hand that came up to pull at the oxygen mask. "You need that, okay? Leave it alone, Dean." Dean stopped fidgeting, staring with glassy and drifting eyes at his father. There were people looking at Dean's back, one person closely inspecting his knee.

"Dad?" He whispered, and John nodded.

"Yeah, it's me," he said quietly. "How you doing?" Dean was either thinking about it or spacing out, and John was about to repeat the question when Dean blinked sleepily.

"Feel funny," he said finally.

"Yeah, you've got a pretty high fever there, buddy. Do you know what happened Dean? How did you get hurt?" Dean eyes drifted as he tried to focus on John's face, and John felt another pang of fear.

"Where's S'mmy?" Dean slurred, and John took a deep breath.

"He's okay, Dean. He's fine. Let's just focus on you, okay?"

"Was cryin'," Dean persisted, struggling to lift himself.

"Hey buddy, you need to stay down. Dean, knock it off, kid, Sam's okay. You hear me? You need to lie down." Dean slowly sank back down onto the gurney, but John thought that it was as likely due to his waning adrenaline as it was to John's presence.

"Dad?" Dean whispered, sounding frightened and startlingly vulnerable.

"I'm right here, Dean, right here," John answered, but this time Dean didn't seem to hear him.

"Dad?" He repeated, his voice rising.

"Hey, hey, it's okay, calm down Dean, you're okay," John said, tightly gripping Dean's hand in an effort to ground his son. Dean thrashed weakly against him before finally falling limp, chest heaving.

"I don't like his oxygen SATs," the lead doctor said. "If he can't bring those up soon we're going to have to intubate." John grit his jaw and turned back to his son.

"Come on kiddo, hang in there. Stay with me, Dean." Dean's eyes roamed aimlessly, and he seemed to be anywhere but with John. It seemed out of nowhere that his eyes rolled back in his head and his body stiffened, and John let out a startled yell.

"Shit, he's seizing again," someone said, and John thought that was pretty damn obvious but allowed himself to be shuffled out of the way as they worked on stabilizing Dean.

"He's not getting any oxygen, we're gonna have to intubate as soon as this ends."

"His pulse is rising, BP's dropping."

"Damn it, we've got to get this kid up to surgery and clean out that wound."

The seizure ended as abruptly as it had begun. John could only watch as a tube was shoved down Dean's throat, medication added to his IV.

"Let's get him up to surgery, we've got OR 1 booked." John gripped Dean's limp hand for a second, bent down low to whisper into his son's ear.

"You hang on, Dean. You're a tough kid, and you've got to do this for Sammy. And for me, okay? I need you, buddy. You hang on."

And then Dean was gone, and John was left standing in an empty room, bloodied gauze and Dean's shoes lying haphazardly on the floor as the only sign that his son had ever been there.

xxxx

John left the trauma room and walked outside for a minute, unable to go see Sammy yet. He gulped in air, letting the chill wind hit his face, trying to wake up from this nightmare he had come home to. It only took a few minutes for him to break down into sobs, overwhelmed by the emotions flooding him. Guilt and worry and fear and an intense longing for Mary that he hadn't felt so strongly in years. He had finally started to calm down a bit when a voice spoke up to him from somewhere to his side.

"You want a smoke?" John looked up to see one of the nurses from the ER looking at him, cigarette extended.

"Hell yeah," John rasped, voice cracking. He took the offering and borrowed the woman's lighter, igniting the tip of the cigarette and inhaling deeply. He blew out and handed the lighter back, nodding his thanks.

"I can't tell you he's going to be okay," the nurse said, blowing her own smoke out. "But he seems like a pretty tough little guy. And I know you're scared as hell right now, but you've gotta be tough too, you know? You can't give up on your kid, or your kid gives up too. Seen it happen before, probably see it happen again. Don't let that be you, okay? You've got to be willing to kick as much ass as your kid is going to have to." John nodded, let out a hoarse laugh.

"Dean definitely likes to kick ass," he said, shaking his head. "That boy has a fire inside of him…I wouldn't want to be on his bad side, that's for sure. Already has a mean right hook, too." The nurse laughed too, flicking the cigarette butt to the ground and smashing it under her foot.

"Good luck," she said finally. "I'll be thinking of you, and I know there're a bunch of nurses in there who'll be praying for your son." She walked inside, and John watched her go before putting his own cigarette out and heading back inside, strangely refreshed.

Mattie was sitting down, Sam lethargically bunched up on her lap, thumb stuck in his mouth. John shook his head. Sammy hadn't sucked his thumb in years, and it was a pretty good indicator of just how distressed he was that he had started that habit again.

"Hey Sammy, you okay?" John asked, crouching down next to his youngest. Sam didn't reply, just turned around and stuck his arms out in a wordless plea to be held. John wrapped him up in his arms, one hand under his butt, the other settled in his soft hair.

"Mattie, thank you for watching my boy," John said sincerely, and Mattie smiled.

"It was no problem. Sammy's a little angel. He was no trouble at all." John nodded his thanks again, then carried Sammy to the elevator, tapping a foot impatiently as he waited for the right level. The bell rang and John stepped out into the surgical waiting room. He settled down into a chair that was relatively comfortable, gently stroking Sam's back and letting his chin rest on Sammy's sweet-smelling hair. It was only a few minutes later that Sam's breathing evened out indicating sleep, and John gently tried to coax his thumb out of his mouth. Sammy shifted slightly, stubbornly resisting John's efforts, and John smiled lightly and dropped his head back against the wall, finally allowing sleep to overcome him.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Sorry this chapter took a bit longer, but this week's been pretty crazy. Also, is everyone SO stoked for the new episode?!

xxxx

John startled awake, groaning slightly at the stiffness in his neck and the numbness radiating from his right arm. Sammy was still curled up in his arms, his mouth slightly open and a thin line of drool dribbling down his chin onto John's shoulder. John smiled fondly, shifting Sam to ease the pressure off his arm, checking the clock. He was surprised to see that he'd only been asleep for 45 minutes, and wasn't sure whether he should take it as a good sign or a bad sign that he had yet to hear anything. Glancing around, he noticed a man in scrubs approaching from the end of the hall, and deduced that it was the footsteps that had awakened him.

"John Winchester?" The man asked, and John nodded as he sat up straighter, moving carefully to avoid jarring Sammy. The man looked tired, John noted, and felt his concern another notch.

"Dr. Tanner," the man said, shaking John's outstretched hand. "I worked on Dean." John nodded, gently running his hand through Sammy's hair when the little boy whimpered slightly in his sleep.

"How's my son?" John asked quietly, watching as Tanner sat down next to him.

"Mr. Winchester, it's my understanding that you don't know exactly what happened to your son," the doctor said, and John nodded, feeling the color rise to his cheeks as he looked down in shame. "We think that Dean was probably hit by a car."

John's heart sank as he felt tears welling up. If Dean had been hit by a car and Sammy hadn't seen anything, Dean had probably been trying to do something without letting Sam know. It hit John suddenly, so hard it almost literally took his breath away. They'd run out of food. John had come back four days after he'd told his sons to expect him, and they had _run out of food._ Dean had just been trying to get food when some son of a bitch had hit him and then had the balls to drive away. John tried to rein in his emotions, the conflicting guilt and shame and anger and fear.

"Mr. Winchester?" John had practically forgotten that the doctor was there and was suddenly grateful that the man had given him time to collect himself.

"It's John, please."

"Dean's left side was heavily bruised and he fractured three ribs. His knee, frankly, is a mess; he tore two ligaments, the ACL and the PCL. We're going to give Dean some time to hopefully get the swelling down some, and if possible, get a bit of mobility back before surgery, and it'll give him time to recover from this surgery and his other injuries. There was also the puncture wound in the side-it got badly infected and he lost a lot of blood. We irrigated the wound and we gave him a unit of blood, and we've got him on a pretty heavy load of antibiotics. We're also draining the wound."

John sucked in a lungful of air and rubbed his free hand over his face.

"The seizures?" He whispered, and the surgeon gave him a sympathetic look.

"We'll have to wait until he wakes up to see if your son sustained any permanent damage, but I think that's unlikely." John nodded wearily. Tanner shifted in his seat and took off his glasses.

"What aren't you telling me, Doc?" John asked, heart pounding. Sammy shifted, whimpering softly, and John shifted him again. He was frankly kind of surprised that Sam had managed to sleep for so long, then felt another pang of guilt as he realized just how much shit his six year old had been through in the past few days.

"What aren't you telling me?" He repeated, his tone low and bordering on dangerous.

"John, Dean came in with a severe case of pneumonia and he went into respiratory arrest. We managed to get him breathing again, and we've got him off the ventilator right now. We're hoping to avoid putting him on one, but he's really struggling, and if he can't get his oxygen levels up soon, we'll have to intubate him."

"Holy shit," John whispered under his breath, running a hand over his face, lightly fingering the stubble that covered his chin. "When can I see him?"

"We're getting him settled in the ICU right now. You can go see him for a few minutes at the most."

"Thank you," John said, gently shaking Sammy's shoulder.

"Dad?" Sam murmured sleepily.

"Hey kiddo," John said. "We're going to go see your brother, okay? You gotta wake up." Sammy seemed to bolt awake at that, climbing off of John's lap and standing impatiently in front of him.

"Let's go, Dad, come on!" He cried, then noticed the doctor standing in front of him. "Did you work on my brother?" He demanded. Tanner nodded, a small smile playing at his lips.

"Did you fix him? My dad will kick your ass if you didn't." Sam was standing aggressively, his fists bunched up at his side, a frown on his face.

John was horrified, yelping Sam's name while marveling at how intimidating his tiny son could be. Sammy didn't even look at him, glaring intently at the surgeon.

"Whoa there, no need to kick my ass, Sam. I patched your brother up the best that I could, and it's up to him now," the doctor said, and Sam seemed to lose his fire, his shoulders slumping.

"But he's okay?" He whispered thinly, and Tanner smiled.

"Is your brother tough?"

"Yes," Sammy said, his tone clearly incredulous that such a question could even be asked. The glare was back.

"Then I'm sure he's going to be just fine," Tanner said. "Besides, he'll have you to help him, right?"

"Right," Sam said, clearly determined. "Dad, _come on_." He grabbed John's hand in his smaller one, looking at the doctor as if daring him to do anything but take him to Dean's bedside. Tanner gave Sam an unconvincing smile that did nothing to mask his trepidation of the six year old staring at him, and led them to the ICU.

xxxx

Dean looked bad. Not that John had been expecting any differently, but it was _bad_. Another pang of guilt as Sammy gasped quietly beside him, his little hand trembling. There was a tube poking out from the bandages on his side, IVs running in both arms, an oxygen mask over Dean's face. Sammy let out a whimper and John instinctively picked his son up, tucking him to his side. He stepped closer to the bed, noticing with sadness and guilt that Sam had buried his head in John's shoulder.

"Hey buddy, you hanging in there?" John whispered quietly, gently thumbing Dean's hot forehead. Dean shifted restlessly under his hand, mumbling something unintelligible. John could hear the gasping inhales, the rattles that were all too evident with every breath. "Come on, Dean, you can do this." John could feel as Sammy gripped his shirt even tighter, could feel the wetness of tears on his shoulder.

"Sammy?" He said, rubbing a hand over Sam's back. "You okay?" Sam shook his head.

"You wanna talk to Dean?" Sam shook his head again. "You sure, kiddo? I think your brother would probably like to hear you. Hear that- hear that you're okay." John wasn't stupid. He knew that Sammy mattered more to Dean than anything else, and he knew that his oldest son wouldn't be able to rest properly until he was sure that Sam was okay.

"I don't wanna, Daddy," Sam mumbled into his shirt, and John felt sick at the need to simultaneously comfort and prod him.

"For Dean," John said, hating himself, "can you do this for Dean, Sammy?"

Sam's head lifted and John wanted to cry, to berate himself for manipulating Sammy's emotions, for guilting his son into something that he shouldn't feel guilty for.

"For Dean," Sam whispered. John set him on the floor and Sammy gulped and stepped forward, reaching one shaking hand to rest on Dean's arm.

"He's hot," Sammy said quietly, looking at John with wide eyes. "His breathing sounds funny."

"I know, Sammy, they're getting that fixed up, okay? It's just gonna take a little bit of time."

"Daddy, is he going to shake again?" Sammy asked, his lip trembling as much as his voice. John closed his eyes for a brief moment.

"No. Dean's going to get better, and then we're going to take him home." Sammy stared at him, eyes filled with tears.

"We don't have a home, Daddy," he said quietly, and John wished he hadn't been able to hear him.

"Well, we're going to have to change that then, aren't we?" Sam just stared again.

"Yeah," he said finally, clearly unconvinced.

"Excuse me, but visiting hours are over," a nurse said suddenly, startling both John and Sam.

"Okay, thanks. Come on, Sammy." Sam turned back to Dean, bending over and whispering something in his brother's ear, then turned back to John. They walked out of the room slowly, feet shuffling, all but collapsing into the chairs outside the room, emotionally exhausted. John wiped a hand over his face and scrubbed at his eyes, trying to collect his thoughts and feelings enough to make a logical decision about their next move.

"Mr. Winchester?" Someone said, and John wondered with irritation just why no one in this damn hospital seemed to realize that his name was _John_.

"It's John," he spat, hissing between clenched teeth. Sam shrank at his side, clutching at his sleeve. John looked up. And straight into the face of two CPS agents.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: First of all, sorry for the wait on this…Finals are coming up and my computer crashed so I lost an initial draft of this chapter, so my apologies for how long this took me. Secondly, I have absolutely no idea how CPS agents act, or even how that whole process works, so if this is completely wrong, my agents have gone rogue. Thirdly, the boys are 10 and 6 in here, sorry if it isn't clear. Fourthly, I am now 19!

Having said all that, I hope you enjoy this chapter!

xxxx

There was something about CPS agents that seemed to be uniform throughout the entire agency. Not that John Winchester had had a lot of experience with them, but he'd had more encounters than most, and the pair in front of him gave off that unmistakable aura. This time it was a man and a woman, both with absurdly serious expressions on their faces.

"Mr. Winchester?" The man repeated his name, and John grit his teeth.

"Can I help you?" He asked, looking up defiantly. He could feel Sammy pressing himself against his side, felt the small head burrowing into his side and tucked a protective arm around his youngest's shoulders.

"I'm Agent Weston and this is my partner, Agent De Luca. Can I speak to you alone please?" The man looked meaningfully at Sam, and John tightened his grip on his son. "Agent De Luca can look after your son for a few minutes."

Sammy whimpered from behind John's back, and John didn't say anything, glaring up at the agents.

"You're not going anywhere with my son," he said, low in his throat. Weston sighed and De Luca shook her head slightly.

"Mr. Winchester, we need to speak. Sooner rather than later." The way Weston said it made it clear that he was, in fact, threatening John, and as much as that pissed him off, John knew that Weston could theoretically make good on that threat.

"Sammy," John said quietly, shifting Sam so that they were face to face. "I need you to go with this woman okay? I need to talk with this man and then we'll see about checking up on Dean." Sam seemed to perk up a bit at that, drawing his head up and glaring at the female agent.

"Hi Sammy," De Luca said, kneeling down next to the young boy. "Why don't you come take a walk with me?" Sam continued to glare at her from beneath the fringe of his bangs, but he finally stood up and followed her. For a moment, John watched with a faint smile on his face as Sammy walked silently alongside De Luca, firmly ignoring her attempts to speak to him, staying as far away from her as he could in the small hallway. John grinned at his youngest's stubbornness. It would probably be hell to deal with when he was a teenager, but for now, John was proud of the little guy's tenacity.

"Mr. Winchester?" Weston said, one eyebrow raised expectantly. John sighed.

"Look, Weston? Let's just get this over with, okay? I have one son on the verge of melting down because my other son is lying in a hospital bed, and I would like to get back to them."

Weston ignored him. "Would you care to explain how it happened that your son got hit by a car, then neglected to get care for nearly two full days? Where were you when that happened?"

"I'm a mechanic," John said, his stomach churning slightly. Weston seemed aggressive, blunt. "Sometimes, when money's tight, I take jobs in other areas. Mostly working on restoring classic cars for rich bastards who don't know a sparkplug from a piston. It's not something I do often, but my boys have to eat, and I do what it takes to make sure that happens."

"Really? Dean was showing early signs of malnourishment when he was brought in, Mr. Winchester. That, coupled with the injuries he's sustained, is hardly indicative of a loving and caring father."

"Dean's always been small for his age, and things haven't been exactly optimal lately, but I'm doing the best I can-"

"John?" John looked up, startled, and noticed a diminutive nurse standing in the hallway. Weston glared at her.

"Ma'am, I'm sorry, but Mr. Winchester and I are having a discussion-"

"Excuse me, but I came to get Mr. Winchester because his son, Dean, the one who is currently lying injured in a hospital bed, needs his father. Right now. I'm sure that you can find another time to continue your discussion." John was simultaneously impressed with the small-statured woman for standing up to the agent and horrified to think of what had led her to do so.

"Is he okay?" John gasped, feeling his stomach tug uncomfortably. Weston took a step back as the nurse gave him a grim look.

"He needs you," was all she said, turning, and John followed after her without a second glance at Weston. He entered the room just behind the nurse, his height allowing him to see over the nurse's head. His heart sank at the sight before him.

"Aww, Dean," John whispered, walking to his son's bedside. Dean was thrashing weakly, face flushed and sweaty but with a blue tint to his lips. He was wheezing horribly, his labored breaths audible from where John was standing in the doorway. A doctor looked up and approached John with a weary expression.

"We need him to cough the gunk out of his lungs, but he's tired and delusional and coughing is hurting his side and ribs. We're hoping you can help calm him down." John nodded, swallowing painfully past the lump in his throat.

"And if he doesn't?" He asked quietly.

"We'll have to put him under and suction his lungs. If it gets to that point, we'll likely have to put him on a ventilator, and we're really hoping to avoid that."

John was silent a minute. "Guess I'd better get him to cough then." He knelt next to Dean's head, gently running a hand through his son's sweaty hair.

"Hey buddy," he whispered, and Dean blinked up at him, red-rimmed eyes wide over the oxygen mask shrouding his face. "I hear you're being stubborn." Dean stilled immediately, taking in a stuttering breath.

"Hurts," he whispered, and John nodded, thumbing his son's forehead.

"I know Dean. I know, but you've gotta cough it up. You've got a lot of crap in your lungs and it's making it hard for you to breathe. So even though it hurts, you need to cough it out, okay?"

Dean weakly shook his head, staring determinedly into his father's eyes. John smiled faintly. His oldest could be stubborn too.

"I know, kid. But I'm gonna kick your ass if you don't, okay? You know that, right?" He said it teasingly, grinned as Dean managed a faint smile and finally nodded.

"Okay, John, I want you to help with this, okay?" The doctor smiled warmly at John, who nodded in agreement. The doctor squatted next to John, making eye contact with Dean. "Hi Dean. My name's Becky, and I'm a respiratory therapist. Your dad's going to help you sit up, and I'm going to pound your back to help loosen the stuff that's clogging you up. It's gonna hurt a lot, but I've heard that you're pretty tough and that you've got a little brother who thinks you're the coolest thing since white bread."

John felt a pang of guilt at the mention of Sammy, realizing that he didn't know where his youngest was. He winced a split second later when he felt Dean tense up under his hand again.

"Sammy?" He mumbled, straining to see his younger brother.

"Sam's okay," John soothed, but Dean wasn't listening. His breathing started to get raspier as he panicked, his eyes rolling. "Dean, listen to me, you need to calm down. Right now, son, come on. Dean!"

Suddenly, there was a cry that John thought strangely like a battle cry, and Sam came bursting into Dean's room, the CPS agent right behind him.

"Dean!" Sam yelped as De Luca finally caught up with him and reached out to grab his arm. "Don't touch me!" He spat, cocking back a small fist to punch the woman in the nose.

"Whoa there, kid, hold on," John said, catching hold of Sam's fist and wrapping it in his own hand. "You can come see Dean right now." John looked up at the agent, daring her to say something to him, then picked Sammy up and settled him on the edge of Dean's bed.

"Sammy?" Dean mumbled, a flailing hand reaching out for his brother.

"I'm here, Dean," Sam said, and John was surprised by the sudden maturity he heard in his son's tone. "It's okay, Dean. I'm here." Becky looked at them with a sad smile and nodded.

"Are you ready to start, Dean?" She asked softly, and Dean nodded. John helped him sit up, sliding behind him on the bed and putting his broad hands on his son's chest. John felt the heat rising from his son, felt the reassuring beat of his heart, and hoped Dean was taking the same comfort from him. Sammy was curled up next to Dean's other side, both hands gripping Dean's right.

"Okay buddy, you gotta be strong," John whispered into Dean's hair, closing his eyes as Becky started thumping his son's back. Dean cried out weakly then fell into a coughing fit that seemed to shake his whole body, rattling in his chest before erupting painfully out his mouth.

"Good," Becky murmured, moving to hold a basin under Dean's mouth. John peeked over the top of Dean's head, noticed the dark, thick mucus dripping into the bowl and looked away, rubbing Dean's shoulders. Sammy remained determinedly holding Dean's hand, though tears ran down his cheeks as Dean kept coughing.

Ten minutes later, Dean was exhausted and spent, and collapsed weakly against John. Becky gave them a reassuring smile and left the three Winchesters alone. The room was silent except for Dean's weak gasps and the soft whir of the oxygen flowing through the cannula under his nose.

And then, as John continued to rub his son's back, continued to inhale his smell and reassure himself that his boy was still alive, Sammy's small, thin voice drifted through the room, and John could feel his eyes well up as he recognized the tune.

_Hey Jude, don't make it bad._

_Take a sad song, and make it better…_


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: First, I am SO sorry for the delay! Secondly, I know not a lot happens in this chapter, but I wanted to post something. Thirdly, I want to apologize in advance if this chapter seems at all OC.

xxxx

Pastor Jim Murphy dipped a spoon into the spaghetti sauce bubbling on his stove and blew on it lightly before tasting it. He paused for a minute before wrinkling his forehead in thought.

"Garlic salt?" He murmured, squinting at the rows of spices in his pantry. "Basil?" He was about to make a decision when his phone rang. Grumbling under his breath, he abandoned his hunt for spices and picked up the phone, answering it curtly.

The voice on the other line was not one that he was expecting.

"Pastor Jim?" John Winchester asked tentatively. Jim was surprised at how concerned, how broken the other man sounded.

"John? What's going on? How are the boys?"

He could hear John swallow loudly, his breathing shaky.

"I screwed up, Jim," John said finally. "I was gone longer than I thought, and the boys got hungry. Dean, he, uh, he gave all the food to Sammy, and then he went to get more groceries. He, uh, he got clipped by a car and he was already sick- oh, shit, Jim, I screwed up."

"John, I need you to calm down, okay? Is Dean okay?"

"No. He's sick, Jim, and it's bad. They, uh, the d-doc says that it's touch and go at this point."

"He's in the hospital, then?" Jim asked, relief flooding him even as he felt a pang of panic. At least John had had the good sense to get Dean to a hospital.

"Yeah, and I've got CPS breathing down my neck. They-they're trying to take away my kids, Jim. They're trying to take away my boys."

Jim inhaled sharply. He knew that John Winchester wasn't the best father ever, that he sure as hell wasn't going to win and 'Dad of the Year' awards, but he loved his sons, relied on them and needed them. If they got taken away, it would crush him, and it would likely crush the boys too. The likelihood of Sam and Dean getting put together in a home and staying that way wasn't great.

"Okay, John, I want you to relax. There's a hunter in the area, not 50 miles away from you, so I'm going to have him come up and meet you. He can pose as your brother and give you some credibility until I can make it up there. Just hang in there, John, and take care of your boys, okay? Just focus on getting Dean better and on keeping Sam calm."

"Okay. Okay. Thank you, Jim, you don't know-"

"Don't worry about it, John. Those boys mean a lot to me and I'm happy to help."

"Well, thanks anyway."

"Of course. Good luck, John, I should be there in two days at the latest."

He hung up the phone and stared at it for a second, contemplating what he was about to do. He told himself that there was no question that he was doing the right thing, helping John keep his boys, but there was a small part of him that refused to be silenced, that said that maybe the boys would do better in a normal family.

Finally, he picked the phone up again and dialed.

xxxx

John sat next to Dean's side, head in his hands. Damn but he was tired. Dean had showed a bit of improvement over the last few hours, his fever dropping a few degrees, but he was still struggling for air, still had to endure the hellish respiratory therapy sessions, was still pale and thin and sick. Sam wasn't allowed in the ICU for another hour still, and John wasn't going to argue about it since they normally didn't let kids into the ICU period.

The hospital actually provided a play area for pediatric patients well enough to use it, and for the siblings of patients. There were volunteers watching the kids, but John had still left Dean's side every five minutes to go check on Sammy, and every time Sam was in the exact same spot. He sat despondently in a chair to the side of the play structure, legs dangling above the ground, lower lip trembling and tears running down his face.

John felt like the worst father ever.

He needed to be in two places at once, needed to comfort Sam and strengthen Dean. Not to mention he needed to get CPS off his ass.

When the room phone rang, it startled him, and apparently Dean, who jumped slightly and hitched in a surprised breath.

"Hey, it's okay," John said, running a hand across Dean's back as he picked up the phone.

"Hello? Mr. Winchester? This is the charge nurse. We have a man here who said he's come to see you? Bobby Singer?"

John felt a prickle of fear crawl up his spine. It could be the hunter Pastor Jim had mentioned, but Sammy and Dean were both so damn vulnerable right now…He fingered the knife he was carrying at his waistband and took a deep breath.

"Okay. I'll be right down."

He turned back to Dean, who was blinking at him half-aware.

"I'm going to be right back, okay buddy?"

"'K," Dean said quietly, his eyelids already drooping back down.

John stood and went down to the main waiting area of the ICU wing, praying that he wasn't making a huge mistake, allowing the weight of his knife to ground him. He approached the nurse's desk and was about to talk to ask about his visitor when a gruff voice spoke up behind him.

"John? Is that you?"

John turned and looked at the man. He had a good couple years on John, a salt-and-pepper beard, a trucker hat, and a flannel jacket. He looked fairly normal. John was less than convinced.

"Bobby!" He said, fake cheeriness coloring his tone. "Damn, I am glad to see you." He moved close to Bobby and stuck his hand out to shake, watching closely as Bobby showed no reaction to the sigil John had drawn on his palm, or to the softly muttered 'Christo'.

"Um, my son is down this way," John said, leading Bobby away from Dean's room. He stepped into a small, empty room and shut the door behind him. Bobby nodded as if he was expecting that type of reaction.

"Okay, Winchester, let's get this over with," he said, rolling up his sleeve. John nodded and pulled a flask of holy water out of his jacket, wordlessly handing it to Bobby. Bobby grinned humorlessly.

"Cheers," he said, taking a long swig of it. Nothing happened, so John took the flask back and handed him an iron knife. Bobby raised an eyebrow but took the knife and cut a thin line on his forearm.

"Thanks," John said, accepting the knife back. "Can't be too careful."

"You know there are still any number of things I could be," Bobby said, rolling his sleeve back down.

"I know," John said. "And believe me, I'll be watching for it. But right now, I need someone to trust, and Jim sent you."

Bobby nodded and ran a hand through his hair.

"So you need help?" He said finally.

"Yeah," John answered, scrubbing a hand at the growth on his chin. "My son Dean is in pretty bad shape and I've got CPS up my ass." The admission was clearly a difficult one for him to make, and Bobby shifted his weight.

"You know, I've always thought you were bat-shit crazy for dragging your boys along with you," he said.

John looked up, brow furrowed.

"How the hell do you know about me?" He growled, low and deep in his throat.

"Hunters talk, Winchester. And a hunter who hauls two kids around with him, he makes an impression."

"Well, you listen to me, Singer. I am my sons' father, and I sure as hell don't need you judging me." John's fists were clenched at his side, his jaw tight.

"Okay, I don't want a fight, Winchester. I'm here to help you out because Jim asked me to." Bobby spoke with his arms up, complacent.

"I'm sorry," John said, rubbing his face again. "I'm just so damn tired-"

"Why don't we go to Dean, huh? And then we can get your younger boy too."

John nodded, suddenly feeling the exhaustion that had been held at bay closing in on him.

Dean's room was quiet aside from the quiet hiss of oxygen and the hushed beeping of a heart monitor. Dean looked pathetically small, sitting partially upright in a mound of pillows. An oxygen cannula ran under his nose, IVs in his wrist, his knee elevated and swollen.

"Dad?" He mumbled as John walked into the room. He blinked sleepily, grinning lopsidedly.

"Hey buddy, how you doing?" He asked, sitting down at Dean's side and putting a hand on Dean's forehead. Dean squirmed.

"'M good. Where's Sammy?"

"He'll be here in a few minutes, kid. I've brought someone to meet you."

Dean frowned in confusion, then turned his head sluggishly toward Bobby.

"Hi Dean. I'm Bobby Singer. I'm a friend of Jim's."

"Bobby?" Dean repeated, looking at the gruff man next to him. He looked at John. "You test him?"

John nodded.

Dean held a thin hand full of wires out to the older man. Bobby grasped it and shook it gently. Dean seemed satisfied, settling back against the pillows.

"Why are you here?" He whispered.

"I'm here to help out your daddy," Bobby answered. He swore lightly to himself; this boy was already stealing his heart.

"Help?" Dean gasped, suddenly looking panicked. "Sammy? Where's Sammy? 'S he okay? 'S it CPS?"

"Dean, Dean calm down. Your brother is fine, CPS isn't going to do anything, and you just need to get better. Bobby's here so that I can take Sammy home, let him take a shower and get some rest, okay?"

Dean peered at Bobby, eyes narrowing.

"Fine," he said finally before bursting out coughing. John helped him sit up, pounding him on the back until he regained his breath. He hated that he knew exactly how to pound Dean's back to help his son cough, hated that he had to know that. Damn, this situation sucked.

"Sonuvabitch," Dean murmured, his words slightly slurred. Bobby grinned and John chuckled lightly.

"I'll let the language slide this time, buddy, but as soon as you feel better…" He let his voice trail off and thumbed Dean's warm cheek.

"Dad?" Dean muttered. "Y' should go get Sam. I'll be okay."

John looked uncertainly at Bobby, then back down at Dean. Dean motioned him closer, and John leaned in.

"You tried holy water an' silver," Dean whispered harshly. John nodded. "I mem'rized an exorcism, an' I nicked a scalpel this mornin'. 'M fine, Dad."

John blinked for a minute, staring at his son in surprise, then laughed. Even weak and exhausted, Dean never failed to surprise him.

"Okay Dean, I'll be right back." John stood up and motioned to Bobby. "You touch my boy, you harm a single hair on his head, and I will hunt you down until the day I die, do you understand me?"

Bobby nodded seriously, then grinned.

"Wouldn't have it any other way, Winchester. I'll take care of him."

"Thank you," John said, then walked out of the room. Bobby turned around and saw Dean peering at him, blinking sleepily. There was a glint of metal, and Bobby could see the scalpel the little boy was clutching in one shaking hand.

"Dean, I'm not going to hurt you. I promise. I'm here to watch out for you. You can sleep."

Dean didn't relinquish his hold on the scalpel and shook his head stubbornly.

"Why?" He asked, his voice raspy.

"Jim asked me too," Bobby answered. Dean shook his head.

"Liar. Why?"

Bobby looked into the boy's green eyes, muddied with pain and fatigue, but bright, intelligent, took in the pale face and the freckles, the hair plastered to the forehead with sweat…and gave in.

"I had to kill my wife," Bobby said finally. "She was possessed. I didn't know what the hell was going on, but I had to kill her."

"Hunter," Dean said, exhaustion coloring his voice.

"Yep," Bobby confirmed. "Took me down the same road your daddy's on now."

"Not good enough," Dean murmured. He was growing sleepy. "Why us?"

"My wife was pregnant," Bobby said finally, emotions long hidden threatening to surface. "I was going to have a son."

Dean blinked sleepily and put a small hand over Bobby's.

"'M sorry," he said, then drifted off to sleep.

"Me too, kid," Bobby whispered, blinking tears back. Damn John Winchester and his boys.


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: Thanks for all the reviews for the last chapter! I probably won't get updates out this quickly on a regular basis, but I wanted to thank y'all for reading.

xxxx

Sammy was still on the chair he had been on when John checked on him last, knees drawn up under his chin, eyes and cheeks red from crying. There was a girl, probably high-school age sitting next to him, trying to get him to talk to her, but he wasn't even looking at her, let alone engaging in conversation.

As he got closer, John could hear the girl trying to talk to Sam.

"What about a graham cracker? Would you like one of those?"

Sam turned his head away.

"No? How about a Snickers bar?"

Sam buried his head in his arms and started sobbing. John started walking faster, calling Sam's name.

"Daddy!" Sam looked up and flew off the chair, running to John and throwing himself in his arms.

"Hey, it's okay, kiddo," John murmured, rubbing Sam's tense, trembling back. "You're okay."

"Dean gave me a Snickers," Sammy whimpered into his shoulder. "He said he ate one already but he didn't."

John felt tears prick at the corners of his eyes. He hadn't actually gotten the full story out of Sam, and Dean was in no condition to tell it, so he'd only guessed at what must have happened. He was starting to realize that maybe he didn't want to know.

"Can I see him now?" Sam asked quietly.

"Of course you can, Sammy. We'll go right now." Sam nodded against his shoulder, his small arms wrapped tightly around John's neck, his legs around John's waist. John got to his feet, still rubbing his hand over Sam's back.

"I don't like it here," Sammy whispered finally. "I wanted Dean. I wanted you."

John tried, unsuccessfully, to quell the feelings of guilt that rose to the surface.

"I'm here now, and Dean's doing fine. You're okay, Sammy."

"I'm sorry I wasn't brave," Sam whispered.

"Hey, hey, you were brave, Sammy. You've been very brave. I couldn't ask for any more from you, kiddo."

Dean was sleeping when John got to his room, and Bobby was sitting in the chair next to his bed.

"How's he doing?" John asked as he lowered Sammy onto the bed next to Dean.

"He's pretty tired. Fell asleep a couple minutes after you left."

"Who are you?" Sam asked from his spot on the bed, peering suspiciously first at Bobby, then at John.

"He's a friend of Jim's, Sam. His name's Bobby. He's here to help us."

Sam continued to stare at Bobby.

"Nobody helps us," he said quietly, and John felt his heart break.

"Don't say that, Sammy," John whispered. "Don't say that."

"Dean trusts him?" Sam whispered finally, and John nodded. "Fine. He can stay."

John smiled lightly and shook his head, recognizing that Sam was going to be one hell of a handful once he hit his teenage years. He looked at Bobby and could see that the other man was trying not to laugh, not wanting to shatter the fragile trust (or maybe tolerance) he'd been granted by the feisty six year old in front of him.

"Sammy, you've got ten more minutes and then we're going to go home for a while, okay? You need to get some sleep and I need to get some sleep, and both of us could use a shower."

Sam immediately tensed up, his hands clenching into fists at his side.

"I don't want to go," he said. "I'm going to stay here. I can sleep by Dean."

"No, Sam, you can't sleep by Dean. Nurses come in to check on him all the time and they're going to wake you up."

"I don't care! I don't need sleep!" Sam's voice was rising.

"Sam, keep your voice down before you wake Dean up. We are leaving in," he made a show of checking his watch, "seven minutes."

"No," Sam said. "I want to stay. Please Daddy, let me stay."

"Sorry buddy, but it'll only be for a few hours," John said firmly.

Sam glared at him, arms crossed petulantly in front of him. Abruptly, the expression changed to one of doe-eyed pleading, big brown eyes swimming with unshed tears and a trembling bottom lip. Damn it, Sammy was bringing out the big guns.

John could feel Bobby's amused gaze on him as he struggled to fight against the power of Sam's puppy eyes. No, he would not give in. He wouldn't. Damn it!

"You get an extra ten minutes, Sam. That's it."

Sam seemed to recognize John's tone and nodded hastily, accepting the compromise without further complaint. He leaned down and whispered something in his brother's ear before curling himself up next to Dean, one arm thrown over Dean's chest, his nose buried in Dean's shoulder.

"He'd better not fall asleep," John muttered under his breath. Bobby sighed.

"You've got a couple of spirited boys there, John."

"You have no idea," John answered, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. "I don't know where they got it." Bobby snorted and John shot him a look.

Sammy turned over abruptly so that he was facing John and Bobby again and peered at Bobby.

"I like you," he announced. "I'm glad you're helping us."

"Not a problem, Sammy," Bobby answered. Sam glowered.

"Only Dean calls me Sammy," he said firmly. "Just 'cause you're helping doesn't mean you can call me that."

Bobby wisely didn't bring up the fact that he'd seen John call him Sammy multiple times in the past few minutes and instead nodded.

"Okay. Sorry Sam."

"It's okay," Sam answered, then rolled over again.

John rolled his eyes in Bobby's direction, shrugging in a 'see-what-I-deal-with?' expression.

Five minutes from John's deadline, Sam let out a little snore, and John sighed.

"Damn it. He's out. He's gonna be pissy when I get him up."

"That wasn't pissy?" Bobby asked, an eyebrow raised. John laughed.

"Nope. That was just the tip of the iceberg." John looked down at his sleeping sons and smiled wistfully. "He's a good kid, though. They're both good kids."

A nurse walked into the room, interrupting John's moment of wistfulness.

"Hi Mr. Winchester, I'm just here to check on Dean real quick." She bent down and stuck an aural thermometer in Dean's ear, then changed one of his IV bags. Neither boy stirred at her movements.

"They're little angels," the nurse murmured, resting a hand on Dean's forehead. "Poor dear." She smiled reassuringly at John. "His temp's still not normal, but it's holding steady."

"Thanks," John said as she left. He turned to Bobby. "I'm gonna take Sam back to the motel, just for a few hours. Is that-"

"That's fine, John. Do you have a number I can reach you at?"

"Umm, I have the motel's number, but I don't know our room specifically."

"That's okay. I'll call you if anything changes."

"Thanks Bobby. I, uh, I really appreciate this."

"Not a problem."

"Come on, Sammy," John said quietly, lifting Sam up from Dean's side. Sam whimpered and lashed out for a second before stilling and settling his head on John's shoulder, his thumb coming protectively to his mouth.

"Thanks again," John said, then walked out the door.

xxxx

John had forgotten what the motel looked like the last time he'd seen it, and walking into it sure as hell wasn't how he'd wanted to remember. The bed was messy, dried blood spotting the sheets, and no comforter. There was a bag of groceries untouched on the table, and on the floor sat the first aid kit that John had left the boys, its contents spewed across the floor. Next to it was a bloodied bandage and drops of dried blood.

John clutched Sammy tighter to him, wondering what he was going to do with the little boy until he could clean up the room. He finally laid him gently down on the clean bed, the turned to the bed that Dean had obviously used. He told himself that what he was doing was just like any other clean up job, just blood that could belong to anyone, just bandages that had been wrapped around anyone.

But this was Dean's blood and Dean's bandages, and he was getting a horribly clear picture of what his sons had been forced to endure.

By the time he got around to wiping the dried blood of the floor, he was holding back tears and praying to Mary for forgiveness. How the hell had it gotten to this? He'd been so blinded by revenge, so driven by-

Sam woke up screaming.

"Sam, Sammy, hey, you're okay kiddo," John murmured, scooping Sam into his arms. Sam was inconsolable, sobbing loudly and gripping John's shirt tightly in his little hands.

"No Daddy, no," he cried, shaking his head fiercely. "I don't wanna be here!"

"Sammy, I need you to calm down. I know that you don't like it here, but I'm going to finish cleaning up and then we'll get another room. I need you to be brave until I finish, okay? Can you do that?"

Sam sniffled loudly and rubbed at his nose, then nodded.

"Okay kiddo, just a few more minutes."

Getting another room would mean paying for the clean up in this one, but John was past caring about the extra expense. There was no way in hell he was going to make Sammy stay in this room, and there weren't any other motels close enough to the hospital.

John turned the TV on and found a channel playing cartoons for Sam, who sat on the bed, knees drawn up, listlessly watching the TV. John had just about finished up when the phone rang. He jumped up, scrambling to answer it, breathlessly gasping out 'hello' when he finally had the receiver in hand.

"Hi, Mr. Winchester? This is the front desk. You've got a call from Bobby Singer?"

"Put him through," John said hurriedly.

"John?" Bobby's voice came through loud and clear, and the worry in his tone was evident.

"Yeah, what's wrong?"

"You'd better get over here. CPS is looking for you and, uh, they look pretty serious."

John swore under his breath and turned to Sam.

"Good news, buddy. You get to see Dean even sooner than I said."

Sam cheered and leapt off the bed, running to the door and flinging it open. John followed behind, heart pounding.

_Please not my boys. Please don't take my boys._


	10. Chapter 10

Weston didn't look happy when John arrived, Sam in tow, and was about to direct his partner to once again look after Sam when Bobby showed up.

"I've got him," Bobby said gruffly, wrapping Sam up in a hug and glaring at Weston. John was suddenly immensely grateful for the support that Bobby had provided, and for how quickly the older man had grown to care for his children.

"Mr. Winchester, we've just looked through your sons' school records. Dean hasn't been in the same school for longer than a 6 month period since he started the first grade, and Sam has already been to two different schools."

"We have to move around a lot as part of my job, I've told you that!"

"That doesn't explain why Dean has missed a full third of the days he should have been in school."

John remained silent, and the CPS worker sighed.

"Dean was also, as you're aware, bordering on malnourishment when he was brought in. He's severely underweight for his age."

John continued to remain silent, hands clenching into fists under the table. Weston looked down at his hands and then back up.

"Mr. Winchester, we think it best if we take over custody of your sons temporarily."

"What?" John asked, his voice low and stunned. "No. No way in hell."

Weston shook his head.

"I'm sorry, but Sam needs some stability right now, and you are in no position to provide that for him."

"And Dean?"

"You'll be allowed to see him, but only with a guard."

"How the hell is this supposed to make things better? Sam needs Dean, and Dean sure as hell needs me and Sam. Your meddling is going to make things worse!"

"Mr. Winchester, please. As I said, this is only a temporary arrangement. Once Dean is recovered enough to be released, we'll reevaluate your position."

"You're killing Dean, you son of a bitch. He _needs_ his family. You're killing him!"

"There are no need for melodramatics, Mr. Winchester. My partner is going to accompany you and Sam back to your motel room to gather his things, and then Sam is going to be placed with a temporary family. We've gotten the best family we could; this couple has worked with dozens of children over the years, and they're one of our greatest success stories."

"Well that's great," John snarled. "I'm glad you're putting my son with a 'success story.' That makes this shithole of a situation so much better."

Weston ignored the comment, gathering his papers together and standing up.

"Ms. DeLuca will take you and Sam back to the apartment to get his things. When you get back, we can sit down and talk about what you need to do to increase your chances of getting full custody back, and we'll go over more thoroughly what happened to Dean, okay? I'm not here to steal your kids. I'm just trying to do what's best for them."

John listened blankly, noting in a detached sort of way that Weston was no longer smug and threatening. Must've gotten a tongue-lashing from someone. Not that that really mattered; what mattered was that Sam and Dean were being taken away. He didn't care if it was a 'temporary measure,' his boys were being taken away from him.

"Mr. Winchester? Are you ready to go?" It was Ms. DeLuca. She was smiling at him. John managed to tamp down the urge to yell at her to wipe her smirk off her face, and instead went to get Sam from Bobby.

"John?' Bobby asked as John crouched and wrapped his arms around Sam. John met his eyes over Sam's shoulder and shook his head slightly. Bobby felt his stomach sink.

"Come on, kiddo. We're going back to the room."

Sam looked as if he wanted to argue, but he apparently picked up on the solemnity of John's tone, because he looked at his father with wide eyes and frowned.

"Dad?" He whispered. "Is Dean okay?"

John nodded, tears in his eyes, as he stood up, Sam clinging to him like a monkey.

"Dean's fine, kiddo. He's okay."

"You're sad," Sam said gently, touching John's cheek. John barely held in a sob.

"It's okay, Sammy. Things are going to- they're going to get bad for a little while, but I love you, and I'll never leave you, okay?"

"Okay," Sam said, frowning. He looked at John with a confused expression.

John walked down to DeLuca's car with Sam still wrapped around him.

"Daddy? Where's the Impala? Dad?"

"It's okay, kiddo. We're riding in this car with Ms. DeLuca."

"I hate Ms. DeLuca," Sam said, folding his arms as John buckled him in. John managed a weak smile.

"Do we use that word, Sammy?" He asked, looking his son in the eye. Sam's gaze never wavered.

"When it's true," Sam answered. John had to turn away so that Sam couldn't see him struggle between crying and laughing.

They got to the motel and DeLuca walked in with them, leaving John glad that he'd had the time to clean up most of the room.

"Okay Sammy, we've gotta pack up your backpack, okay? Get your clothes and your favorite toys."

Sam stared at him suspiciously, eyes hardening, little hands on his hips.

"Why?" He demanded.

John took a deep breath and knelt down in front of Sam, resting his hands on Sam's slender shoulders.

"You're going to be staying with another family for a few days, kiddo. Just for a little bit, until Dean's better."

"No," Sam whispered, taking a step back. He shook his head. "No."

DeLuca stepped forward.

"Sammy-" She started. Sam snapped abruptly.

"You don't call me Sammy!" He screamed, punching at her legs, her stomach, anything he could reach. "You don't call me that! I hate you! I hate you!"

John stepped forward and enfolded the writhing body in his arms, buried his face in Sam's hair.

"It's okay, Sammy. It's okay." He kept whispering as he gathered Sam's things and tucked them into his Ninja Turtles backpack. Sam had finally settled down and was sobbing into John's shoulder, bawling as if his heart was breaking. John thought that it probably was.

"Here," he said finally, handing the backpack to DeLuca with a seething glare. He marched out the door without another word, one hand firmly on Sam's back, and DeLuca couldn't help but wonder if this was a big mistake.

xxxx

Eleanor and Daniel Kelly had taken in numerous children over the years, some more damaged than others. So when the social worker brought Sam Winchester over and he wouldn't talk to them or even look at them, they weren't too panicked.

"Hi sweetheart," Eleanor said, kneeling down to look at Sam. "What's your name?"

Sam turned his head away. The hand clutching a Transformer was trembling.

"Why don't you come with me, and I'll introduce you to the rest of the family?"

Sam trailed along behind her silently, head down.

"This is my husband, Daniel," Eleanor said, pointing to her husband. Sam didn't acknowledge that he'd heard her in any way.

"And these are our children, Sally and Kyle. They used to be foster children too, Sam, but now they're part of our family."

Sam's trembling increased, and he let out a small sob.

"Sam? Sweetie, what's wrong?"

Eleanor could only watch as Sam's shoulders shook with soundless cries, his gaze never leaving the floor. She exchanged a concerned glance with her husband, then turned back to the little boy in front of her.

"Okay, why don't I show you your room? You can lay down there for a little while. I'm sure this has been a very stressful day."

Sam nodded ever so slightly, tear tracks still visible on his cheeks, Transformer still tightly gripped in one hand. Eleanor wanted to reach down and hug the little boy, or at least hold his hand, but she instinctively knew that that was the wrong thing to do. Instead, she made sure he was following her and walked to the little room they'd set aside for Sam; normally, they would have had him share a room with Kyle, but under the circumstances, it seemed that giving him his own room might be a better option.

"Here you go, Sam. You can set your things down in here."

Sam didn't respond. He climbed up on the bed, backpack still on, and curled into a little ball. Eleanor watched with an aching heart, unsure how to help.

"I'll come get you when dinner's ready, okay?"

Again, Sam didn't respond in the slightest. Eleanor backed out of the room and paused outside his door, biting her lip when she heard a small, muffled sob from the room.

"Oh, Sam," she whispered. "What are you doing here?"

xxxx

"Have you told him yet?" Bobby asked, staring angrily at Weston.

"Not yet, no."

"Then I want to."

"Mr. Singer, I don't think that's a good idea."

"Am I banned from his room?" Bobby demanded, standing toe to toe with Weston. "Do you have a police order or any kind of order at all that will keep me from his room?"

Weston shifted.

"Not yet-"

"Then I'm going in."

"Mr. Singer-"

Bobby ignored him and walked into Dean's room. Dean blinked hazily, then offered a wobbly smile.

"Hey Dean. How you feeling?" Bobby asked, pulling up the chair next to the hospital bed.

"Hot," Dean whispered. Bobby frowned and rested a hand against Dean's forehead. It was definitely warm.

"We'll get a nurse in here to check up on you, okay?"

Dean nodded weakly. "When's Dad coming back?" He whispered. Bobby looked down.

"Bobby?" Dean said, trying to leverage himself up on trembling arms.

"It might be a little while, buddy. CPS-"

"No," Dean said, his voice trembling. "No! Where's Sammy? Where the hell is he?"

Bobby winced as Dean continued to yell, his voice hoarse and gravelly. Weston came into the room and shot a glare at Bobby before crouching next to Dean's bed.

"Dean? Listen, it's just temporary, okay?"

"No," Dean said, thrashing weakly. Sweat was clumping his hair and trickling down his forehead, his cheeks flushed. His breathing was starting to come in harsh gasps. "Where's Sammy?"

"He's staying with a really nice family until you can get better, Dean."

"No," Dean whispered, his whole body trembling. "No."

"Dean, come on kid, you need to calm down, okay?" Bobby said, resting a rough hand on Dean's cheek. "Look at me. Sam's okay, and we're going to get him back, you hear me?"

"Sammy," Dean gasped. "Sam."

"I know. I know. It'll be okay, Dean. We'll get him back."

Dean finally went limp, breaths rattling in his chest, mouth open as he struggled for air. Bobby pressed the nurse call button, then leveled a look at Weston.

"I think you should probably leave now," he said, standing protectively in front of Dean. "You've done enough here."

Weston, to his credit, got up and left without a word. Bobby turned back to the boy in front of him, running a hand through his hair.

"Hang on, kid. Your daddy ain't going down without a fight, and neither am I."


	11. Chapter 11

Seth Weston was not having a good day. John Winchester's uncle, Jim, had arrived, and he'd ripped Weston a new one for separating the boys. Weston had explained his reasoning, pointed out Dean's malnutrition and school records, gave all of the reasons that totally justified what he'd decided to do.

Or at least, that _should_have justified what he'd decided to do.

Somehow, though, he was starting to realize that maybe he'd made a mistake.

"Seth," DeLuca said, walking into the room and sitting on his desk. "I just got a phone call from Daniel Kelly." Seth looked up. "He said they can't get Sam to eat, and that he hasn't been sleeping. It's been two days, Seth, and the kid hasn't eaten anything."

Seth scrubbed at his eyes and cursed under his breath.

"Damn it. Dean isn't eating either. They've got him on an NG tube."

DeLuca sighed heavily.

"I think we screwed up here, Seth."

"But you saw the same thing I did, Jenna. John Winchester has been neglecting those kids."

"I know. I know it seems like that to us, but these kids are different. Somehow, I think that they're capable of fending for themselves if they need to."

"They shouldn't have to," Seth mumbled.

"They need their father, Seth. They need each other."

Seth was quiet for a minute, flipping aimlessly through Dean's file.

"You know what bothered me the most?" He said finally. Jenna shook her head. "Dean was malnourished, but Sam was fine. Totally fine. Dean's been starving himself for his little brother."

"It's sad," Jenna agreed, "but isn't there something kind of beautiful about that too? That Dean loves his brother that much?"

"Maybe," Seth said, shrugging. "But who the hell watches out for him? Who loves Dean that much?"

Neither had an answer.

xxxx

Jim sighed and rubbed a hand over his forehead. Dean wasn't doing well, and John was an absolute wreck. When Jim had gotten there, he'd found John hammered, almost passed out on the floor of the motel room. He'd started sobbing as soon as Jim walked in, a startling show of weakness that Jim had never witnessed from his friend before. As soon as John had calmed down, Jim had silently taken all of the booze out of the room and watched as John crashed, collapsing into bed and falling asleep in minutes.

Jim shook his head again, recalling the scene that had greeted him upon arriving at the hospital. Bobby was sitting with Dean, who, though conscious, was absolutely silent and still, curled up on his side.

"Hi Dean," Jim had said, sliding next to him on the bed. Dean hadn't responded, just continued staring with unfocused eyes until finally falling limp, asleep or unconscious.

Bobby had explained the situation out in the hallway, shaking his head as he recounted what had gone on in the past two days, nervously lifting his hat and running his fingers through his hair and then replacing it and lifting it again.

Jim had listened quietly, apprehensively, had felt a flurry of emotions rising, outrage and sorrow and, maybe most strongly, _fear._ Fear because he knew what had driven John to drink, what Bobby was figuring out after knowing the Winchesters for less than a week, what the social workers _needed _to understand.

Dean wasn't going to get better without Sammy.

As if to prove his point, Dean's doctor stepped into the room, pressing his stethoscope to Dean's chest, checking machines, looking at charts. Then he shook his head and asked for a nurse.

"What's going on?" Jim demanded, feeling Bobby stand behind him.

"We're going to have to put an NG tube in. He's not getting enough nourishment."

_Shit._"That will help?"

The doctor sighed and took off his glasses.

"It might. At this point, though, a lot of this is up to Dean. And frankly, he's taken such a drastic turn since his brother- well, it just seems like Dean was doing a lot better with his family here."

Jim almost said something most un-pastor like, but managed to keep his mouth closed.

"What about his knee?" Jim asked, and the doctor shrugged.

"I'd like to get him into surgery to fix it up as soon as possible, but I'm hesitant to put him under anesthesia at this point."

Bobby swore from behind him.

A nurse arrived and helped the doctor thread the tube down Dean's nostril; Dean thrashed weakly for a second before going completely limp, staring past Bobby with an unfocused gaze. The doctor spoke soothingly, telling Dean what they were doing as they were doing it, but Dean gave no response.

"Dean? Come on, kiddo, help me out here," Bobby said gruffly, thumbing the back of Dean's hand. Dean made no move to indicate that he had heard what was going on.

"Dean, you need to stay strong. You hear me? Your family still needs you. Stay strong, Deano," Jim whispered, running his hand through Dean's sweaty hair. "We'll get them back, Dean, and they need you."

Dean didn't answer.

xxxx

Eleanor Kelly had never dealt with a boy like Sam Winchester before. He was quiet and withdrawn, which wasn't unusual, but he was also stubborn. He didn't want to eat, so he didn't, no matter what they offered him. He didn't want to watch TV, he didn't want to read a book, he didn't want, well, anything that they could think to offer.

When they did ask what he wanted, his answer was the same every time, without fail. Dean.

Eleanor Kelly was starting to think that they had better get Sam back to Dean, or the child was going to waste away into nothing, just fade until he was gone. As it was, he was pale and had the beginnings of dark circles under his eyes, and Eleanor was getting concerned.

"Sam? Why don't you try to eat some cereal this morning, huh? I've got Cap'n Crunch, or Frosted Flakes…anything sound good?"

Sam shook his head and refused to make eye contact. The Transformers doll he'd had since arriving was still clenched in one hand.

Eleanor was at a complete loss. Biting her lip, she knelt down in front of Sam, taking one of his hands in her own. He was trembling.

"Come on, sweetie, you need to eat something. You're going to get sick."

Sam shook his head.

"Not hungry," he muttered. Eleanor bit her lip.

"Please, Sam. You need to eat, sweetheart."

Sam shook his head again, lip trembling.

"Can you get me Dean?" He whispered, tears gathering in his eyes. He looked so tired, too weary for a six year old.

"You know what, Sam?" Eleanor whispered, brushing Sam's bangs from his eyes. "I'm going to do everything I can to get Dean for you. How's that?"

"Really?" Sam asked quietly. Eleanor nodded, standing up with her hand outstretched. Sam tentatively put his tiny hand in hers, and she squeezed it.

"Come on, Sam, let's go make a phone call."

xxxx

Dean was getting worse. John had finally been allowed in to see his son, and Bobby and Jim had gladly exited the room so that he could have as much privacy as possible. That wasn't a lot, not with the door open and the security guard inside with him, but it seemed like the right thing to do anyway.

Bobby sat down heavily on a small bench outside Dean's room and let out a sigh.

"How you doing?" Jim asked, sitting next to him. Bobby snorted.

"This is all your fault, Murphy," he said finally. Jim laughed.

"Yes, I suppose it is." There was a beat of silence before he continued. "They have a way of getting to you, don't they?"

"Stubborn as hell, both of them. All of them."

"Yeah."

"I'm stuck with 'em now, ain't I." It wasn't really a question. Jim shrugged.

"You don't have to be. You could go back to hunting and forget you ever met them."

Bobby was quiet a moment.

"Aw, hell. I couldn't do that now if I wanted to."

Jim suspected that part of him did, in fact, want to; Bobby certainly hadn't been looking for a family, nor for a chance to open himself up to the potential for heartbreak again. But he'd found one, and Jim knew that he wasn't likely to give it up now.

"Jim!" John's voice startled him out of his reverie. "Dean needs help! I need a doctor!"

Bobby stood and ran for the nurse's station as Jim tore into the room.

Dean was flat on his back, head thrown back and neck distended, gasping loudly for air that wasn't coming. His lips were already turning blue, as were the fingernails that were so tightly gripping the sheets.

"Dean, hang on buddy, help's coming, okay? Hang on, son," John said, running his hand through Dean's hair. Dean continued to gasp, though more weakly now, his chest heaving. His eyelids started to flutter.

"Hey, none of that, stay with me," John whispered. "Stay with me."

In response, Dean went limp- completely, unnervingly limp.

"Dean!" John yelled, just as a few doctors burst into the room, quickly shoving him and Jim to the side. Jim watched as they shoved a tube down Dean's throat, squeezing a bag over his head before hooking him up to a ventilator. A nurse settled some cooling packs around Dean, and Jim realized that the kid had a raging fever that he hadn't even noticed.

"You need to leave, sir," a nurse said, ushering Jim out the door. Jim followed without argument, glancing back at Dean's still form as he left.

The doctor came out a few minutes later, and Jim took the opportunity to corner him.

"How bad is this?" He demanded. The doctor shrugged.

"It sure as hell isn't good," he answered with surprising candor. Jim blinked.

"But _how_ bad is it?"

"Honestly, it'll be a miracle if Dean makes it out of here. The antibiotics we've been giving him haven't killed the infection in his wound, and he's spiking a fever again. His lungs are starting to get fluid buildup in them, and he's simply too weak to breathe right now. Your nephew's in pretty bad shape."

"Damn it," Bobby swore, and Jim could see him scrubbing at his eyes. Jim blinked back tears of his own, then straightened up and looked at the doctor.

"I need to talk to Dean's social worker. Right now."


	12. Chapter 12

A/N: Thanks so much for all of the reviews! Here's the last chapter, so thanks for sticking with me.

xxxx

John sat back in his chair across the table from Weston, trying to look more confident and certain of himself than he felt. His hands were still shaking though, so he folded them in his lap, determined not to show weakness. Weston, for his part was uncomfortably shuffling papers around, looking almost as nervous as John was feeling. Then again, the CPS agent was staring down three rather pissed off, rather capable men, and John supposed that his nervousness was understandable.

"So," Weston started, shaking his head. "Mr. Winchester, we're here to discuss your sons, and whether or not they are to be returned to your custody."

John nodded, not trusting himself to say anything else.

"I have to say, I don't quite understand what we've seen the last few days. Your sons were _clearly_ showing signs of neglect, Mr. Winchester. Dean is still in critical condition."

"I know that, damn it," John snarled, fists clenching and unclenching under the table. Weston sighed.

"I know you know," he said. "I just want you to understand how serious this is. Despite the clear mistreatment, your sons have declined –significantly- since leaving your care. Now, whether that's separation from you, or separation from each other I don't know. I _do_ know that it's clear that at the very least they need each other, physically need each other. And somehow, I think they need you too, despite your obvious failings as a father."

John nearly jumped out of his chair, stopped only by Jim's firm hand on his knee.

"Can you get to the point?" Jim asked, fairly spitting the question.

"The point is, that if you can prove that you're going to provide somewhere stable for your sons to live when Dean is well enough to leave the hospital, you can have full custody back."

John was silent for a minute, swallowing convulsively and blinking rapidly.

"Umm, that's- okay. We'll find a place to stay. I'll rent a place-"

"They'll be staying with me," Bobby said firmly. "Soon as Dean's better, they'll come stay with me."

Weston looked at them, then finally nodded.

"I'll get the paperwork in order, and then you can go pick up Sam."

xxxx

"Sam, someone's at the door for you, sweetie," Eleanor said, motioning the quiet little boy to her side and hiding the smile that she felt coming to her lips. Sam looked at her nervously, then opened the door.

"Daddy!" He screamed, throwing himself into the arms of the man outside. The man was big and gruff looking, but his joy at seeing his son was unmistakable.

"Thank you," the man said, his arms full of sobbing six year old. Sam's arms were wrapped around his father's neck, his legs around the waist. Eleanor was only mildly surprised to notice tears welling in the man's eyes, despite his intimidating appearance. "Thank you."

Eleanor smiled, feeling tears come to her own eyes.

"That was Sam's doing. He's the stubbornest little boy I've ever met."

The man laughed, then nodded, burying his face in Sam's hair.

"That he is. Thanks again."

Eleanor handed the man Sam's backpack, the new Transformers toy she'd bought for Sam tucked inside, then watched as they drove away.

"Well damn," she muttered to herself as she wiped a tear off her cheek. Somehow, she would miss that stubborn, solemn kid.

xxxx

"Sammy, I need you to listen to me, okay?"

Sam had finally settled down enough for John to get him seated in the car, and now John was grateful for the reassuring rumbling of the Impala's engine as he drove toward the hospital.

"Where's Dean?" Sam demanded in response. John glanced at him out of the corner of his eyes and noticed Sam's little fists clenching and unclenching.

"He's still at the hospital, kiddo. That's why I need you to listen to me."

Sam nodded and took a deep breath, visibly relaxing himself. John marveled, not for the first time, at how much control Sammy had when Dean was involved.

"I'm listening, Daddy," he said quietly.

"Okay. Dean- Dean got worse while you were gone, Sammy."

Sam let out a little sob, clapping a hand over his mouth to stifle it. John reached over and tucked his hand around Sam's little knee.

"I know, kiddo. But he's going to get better now that you're here, right?"

Sammy nodded and wiped his cheeks.

"He's going to look a little bit scary, but it's all there to help him. You're going to need to be strong. Can I count on you?"

Sam puffed his little chest out, chin held high.

"Yes, sir," he said, and John hid his smile.

"Good."

xxxx

Sam hesitated at the door to Dean's room, biting his lip uncertainly.

"It's okay, Sammy," John whispered, kneeling next to his son. Bobby and Jim had walked out of the room and were sitting in the small waiting area across from Dean's room. Sam glanced back at them, taking a deep breath when Jim gave him a reassuring smile and Bobby nodded encouragingly.

Sam stepped into the room, swallowing thickly past the lump in his throat.

"H-Hi, Dean," he whispered, walking to Dean's bed. His big brother looked even worse than before, as white as the sheets he was laying on, a big tube snaking out of his mouth. There was another tube in his nose, but Sam tried not to think about that one, 'cause it was gross.

"I, um, I'm back now, Dean. I'm going to stay with you and Daddy again. So, if you want to wake up, that would be nice."

Sam shook his head and drew a hand under his nose, which was running. He sniffled loudly. John put a hand on his son's shoulder.

"You're doing great, Sammy."

Sam nodded and sniffled again, then turned back to Dean.

"Wake up, kiddo," he whispered, running a hand over Dean's hand, snaking his fingers carefully around the IVs running into his brother. John smiled lightly at Sam's calling Dean 'kiddo,' shaking his head once again at his youngest's tenacity.

Sam's stomach growled loudly, bringing the moment to an abrupt halt.

"Sammy, we should get you some food, kid. We can go down to the cafeteria real quick and be back soon, okay?"

Sam shook his head.

"I'm not leaving yet. I just got here."

"I know, Sam, but you haven't eaten a good meal in a few days. How would Dean feel if he woke up and you were in the hospital too?"

Sam looked down guiltily.

"But he didn't wake up yet," he whispered. John bit his lip.

"I know, kiddo, and that might take a while. You can't stop eating the whole time, can you?"

Sam sighed and shook his head.

"You're right," he whispered, then stood on his tiptoes. Leaning over, he put his mouth next to Dean's ear and whispered something loudly. John intentionally turned away, not wanting to eavesdrop on such an intimate moment between his sons.

"Okay," Sam said finally. "I'm ready." He carefully slipped his hand into John's, startling the older man, and walked towards the door. They were about to step out when Sam stopped.

"Sammy? What's up?" John asked. Sam turned around, letting out a shout and scrambling across the room. John watched with wet eyes as Sam climbed onto Dean's bed, curling around his newly conscious brother. Dean brought a hand up weakly and rested it on Sam's head, his own cheeks wet, before he drifted back to sleep.

With a soft smile, John brought a chair up next to the bed and watched his sons, Sam staring adoringly at Dean, until he too fell asleep.

xxxx

Two weeks later, Dean was released from the hospital, crutches and inhaler (just in case) in tow, Sammy carefully holding the doors open for him. Bobby had installed a ramp to help ease Dean's walk into the house, and he'd set up a guest room on the first floor for the boys to sleep in.

John helped get Dean settled, watching with a grin as Sam played with one of Bobby's multiple dogs and Bobby and Jim shared a beer together.

"Dean? I want to talk to you, buddy," John said, sitting on the couch next to his son. Dean was pretty lucid for all of the medications he was on, and he nodded attentively.

"I'm sorry," John said, looking intently at Dean. "I shouldn't have left you home alone for so long. I shouldn't have made you worry about food so much. You shouldn't have so much responsibility."

"It's okay, Dad," Dean said, awkwardly patting John's head.

"It's not okay, Dean. It won't happen again, I swear to you."

Dean made a face that John couldn't read, then shrugged.

"Yes it will, Dad. But this time, you'll make sure I have food, and I'll have a backup plan. This was my fault as much as it was yours, and it won't happen again. I promise."

John stared blankly at his son for a minute before Sam came bounding in, babbling happily to Dean about something and leaving John alone with his thoughts.

Dean was right.

It would happen again.

It would always happen again.

Sometimes, John Winchester hated himself.


End file.
